Secrets
by Melody Wilde
Summary: When Mort Rainey decides to rent out the cabin and move on with his life, he finds himself at the mercy of a fan who wants more from him than his autograph. Please read Author's Warning.
1. Default Chapter

Warning and Author's Notes:

Please read this warning before you go any further. This story contains bad language, violence, and non-graphic m/m sex, not all of it consensual. If any of these things disturb you, get out now.

Still with me?

For those who finish this part and wonder "Where did **that** character come from in this fandom": "Secrets" began as a joke in a series of emails between The Amazing Miss Becky and me. I took the concept and turned it into a short story, which I wrote before the movie debuted and we realized its ending varied from the book's. At some point, it mutated on into what you're reading now. I wrote this never intending to share it with anyone but Miss Becky. However, after seeing the sort of SW stories that seem to be in the majority, she and I agreed the fandom needed something just a little bit different…

The characters in this story do not belong to me. I'm only borrowing them. Apologies for not always playing nicely with my toys.

This story is for my friend and beta reader, one of the very best authors around today, Miss Becky. I love you, girl!

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Secrets  
by Melody Wilde

Part 1

__

Okay. Now I really and truly **am** starting to think it's time I move away from the friendly folks of the friendly community of friendly **friendly** Tashmore Lake. Way **past** time.

Mort Rainey removed his wire-rimmed glasses and tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose. _Three years. Three fucking years of this shit, and I've put up with it...why? Inertia? Stupidity? Blind optimism? I keep thinking things are going to get better eventually. But I swear to God, they've gotten worse ever since Dave Newsome died last year._

When, against his better judgement but hoping if he tried to do the right thing he'd win some points with the townsfolk, he'd gone to offer his condolences to Dave's widow, she'd slammed the door in his face. _Just like a lot of the other folks here, acting like I was responsible for his death._ Which was absolutely absurd. The sheriff had suffered a major heart attack in front of half the town during the Christmas parade, where he'd been acting as Grand Marshall. He'd fallen backwards out of the convertible, directly into the path of a tractor pulling the float behind him. Mort had been in the Bahamas at the time, trying to enjoy his first vacation in years. _And failing miserably, but at least I missed the funeral. Stupid as I am, I might even have tried to go to it, and wouldn't **that** have been a scene._

For the past three years, Mort had been trying to understand why the kindly old man, who had been as close to a friend as he'd ever had, had suddenly branded him a murderer. Had turned the whole town against him. Had made his life a living hell whenever he broke The Rules and went in to the local store for something he'd forgotten to buy during his weekly shopping trip over to New London. When he'd tried to talk to Dave, ask him to explain what was wrong, the most he'd ever gotten was a stern, "You and I both know what you did, so let it go unless you're ready to confess."

__

Maybe the needlepoint finally turned his brain to mush. It was bad enough that **he **thought I'd killed Amy and Ted, but to tell the whole fucking town...Jesus Christ! What was he thinking?

Far from being dead, his wife Amy and her charming paramour had taken off on an extended trip of their own to the Bahamas—or somewhere—without bothering to tell anyone where they were going or to leave a forwarding address. They hadn't even sent him a postcard to say, "Having a wonderful time; glad you're not here." Obviously, they'd finally gotten tired of his continued refusal to sign the final divorce papers. He wouldn't have minded their departure from his life if it hadn't left him stuck with all the questions, paperwork, and insurance claims on the house he and Amy had shared for ten years. The house John Shooter had burned to the ground, trying to burn Mort's life.

__

_They left me with a lot of other questions too, like I knew or gave a shit about where they went. So I pissed them off. So what. I think I was entitled to give them a little grief, after what they did to me. And they got their revenge, leaving me the prime suspect in a murder that never happened._

_I wonder if Ted planned it this way. Probably. I bet it was his idea to take off, after his man Shooter got out of control. Run before Shooter decided to take it too far and kill me. I bet that son of a bitch Milner is sitting next to my wife on a beach somewhere drinking a Pina Colada and laughing his ass off at all the trouble he left behind._

__

Asshole. No great loss that he's gone. But Amy...I still miss Amy sometimes. I wish…

Nope. No good wishing. He replaced his glasses, then pulled the seatbelt across his chest and buckled it. _Doritos. Just because I didn't want to drive thirty miles to pick up one fucking bag of Doritos and dared to come here to get them. You'd think I had leprosy, the way they acted. Why the shit **am** I still here? Why didn't I sell out a long time ago and get the hell out of Dodge?_

"Because," a little voice whispered in the back of his head. "You know you can't ever sell the cabin."

__

No? Why not?

"It meant so much to you. And to Amy. Think how happy you were there."

__

Ah there's the key word. "Were." Past tense. Long past.

"It's not like you need the money. The royalties from those last two books are going to keep you in butter and salt for your corn for a long, long time. And if Sony **does** decide to buy the film rights—"

__

Yeah, and when that happens—**if** that happens—maybe **then** I'll sell and move to Hollywood and find myself a sweet young starlet or two to help me forget about Amy and what she did to me. I know one thing. I'm not going to start this shit of talking to myself and answering again. That's crazy.

The Taylor sisters were standing on the sidewalk a few cars away, glaring at him._ Oops. Looks like I've stayed too long at the fair again, and the Wicked Witches of the East and West are about to get out their broomsticks. _He gave them a toothy smile and waved, waiting until they'd turned away with matching looks of disgust before he started the ignition and put the car into gear.

__

And me thinking I'm going to go to Hollywood—or anywhere—and find True Love is crazy too. I couldn't even get interested in those little bikini bunnies that circled me like sharks at the beach. They didn't want to get to know me better...except in the Biblical sense. They just wanted to be able to tell their friends that they'd fucked famous author Morton Rainey. I don't think I trust women anymore. I don't think I trust anybody anymore. Except maybe Herb. I'll trust him as long as that money keeps rolling in.

Maybe I'll call him when I get home. See what he thinks about me renting the place out for a while. Maybe he knows somebody who'd take care of it and keep the residents from coming out to dig up my yard.

That made him pause. _Why should I be worried about somebody coming to dig up my yard? Nobody even comes near the place._

_Mort, ol' boy, you've spent too much time alone. I'll definitely give Herb a call.  
_

_----------  
_

"I can't tell you how happy I am to hear this, Mort. I've been worried about you, out there all by yourself. I mean, it's been good for your writing obviously..."

__

Obviously. That best-seller that Sony's interested in, for example. That's going to make you a bundle.

"But I've been hoping you'd get out of there and come back to civilization."

__

Meaning "get back on the autograph and talk show circuit to push those books instead of hiding out like the recluse you've become." Yeah, like that's going to happen again, no matter where I live. Been there, done that, hated dealing with the fans. Most of the fans.

"The only problem I see is the time of year. October's not a very good month to start trying to rent out lakefront property, especially up here. Have you thought about going ahead and putting it up for sale instead? I know a couple of folks that might be interested in buying, to have it for next spring. I could probably get you a good price."

Mort smiled with clenched teeth at the phone and counted to ten so his voice would be calm and reasonable when he spoke. "Sorry, Herb. Not interested right now, but I'll think about it, okay."

"I understand."

Neither of them mentioned Amy, or the time Mort had spent there with her, or any lingering happy memories he might have had, but she hovered in the background of Herb's simple words, like a ghost, and he didn't press the issue further.

The conversation drifted to the mundane details of the transaction—how much Mort wanted to charge, where the ads should run ("Out of town papers. **Very** out of town—nowhere near here" _Let them wonder when they discover I'm gone_), what he'd be taking and what he'd be leaving for the tenants to use. He hadn't really considered any of these things. _I guess it's pretty obvious that this is a spur of the minute decision on my part. Maybe I'm not ready. Or maybe he's right—with winter coming, nobody's going to want a cabin on the lake, so I won't have to worry about it._

They ended the conversation with a discussion of the progress of Mort's latest book. By the time he hung up and went to grab his Doritos and a Mountain Dew and head back to his laptop, he'd almost forgotten the original purpose of the call.

----------

It was just over a month later—a month in which he'd almost forgotten the conversation with Herb—when the sound of a car door slamming roused him from a rare afternoon nap. He heard the quick, strong, footsteps coming across his porch, then a rapping against the screen.

__

_Shit. Who the fuck..._ Still not fully awake, he grabbed his glasses and stumbled toward the door, then froze, his heart lurching with a terrible sense of _déjà vu_.

__

It started like this before. When John Shooter turned up out of nowhere, banging on my door, standing there and accusing me of... No. No, that was a long time ago. Years. He's gone, gave up and went back to his shithole Mississippi town. It's over between him and me—whatever it was that he thought was wrong has been settled. It's not Shooter. It can't be Shooter.

He still had to take several deep breaths before he could force himself to move forward again. A figure was leaning against the glass of the door, peering in through the curtains. _No hat. See? I told you it wasn't him._ He pulled open the door.

"Can I help you?"

"Mr. Rainey? Yes, I see you are Mr. Rainey."

The man standing on his porch was nothing at all like John Shooter—not tall, thin, and dour. This man was shorter, only slightly taller than Mort, and muscular, with curly black hair and intense brown eyes. Most importantly, he was smiling. Mort couldn't remember Shooter ever smiling, but this man had a wide, friendly grin on his face.

"Yes. That's me."

"I am Miguel Bain." His voice was low-pitched, pleasant, with a distinct Spanish accent. He held out a hand, which Mort took. His handshake was firm, but not overpowering. "I am here to talk to you about renting your house."

__

Renting the…oh yeah. I did say…but I didn't think…

"Mr. Creekmore said it would be all right. He said he would call to let you know that I was coming…"

"Fuck!" He'd unplugged the phone two nights before, after a rash of midnight hang-up calls, undoubtedly from the local youngsters. _But Bain doesn't need to know that, so let's just say…_ "Sorry. I take the phone off the hook when I'm working, so I missed his call."

"It is no problem. I am sorry to have shown up unannounced. I will come back later."

"No, no. My fault. Come in." Mort stepped back and waved.

"If you are sure…then thank you." Bain nodded and moved inside, his eyes sweeping around the room, appraising.

Mort headed toward the couch, scooping up the pillows and blankets and shoving them off to one side. "Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Mountain Dew?"

Bain shook his head and settled on one end of the couch. "No, thank you."

__

_Okay, polite conversation time. _"Did you have any trouble finding the place?" Mort took the other end of the couch.

"No. It was easy. I stopped at the post office in Tashmore Lake and asked for directions."

"Oh." _Fucking shit, I bet **she** gave him an earful or two. I'm surprised he came on out here anyway, instead of getting back in his car and driving back to wherever he came from as fast as he could._ "The…um…the woman who works there…"

"She does not seem to be very fond of you," Bain commented.

He couldn't help it. He burst into laughter. _Now there's an understatement if I ever heard one._ "She...we..."

Bain's eyebrow went up, then down, and he tilted his head slightly to one side. "It happens." His mouth twitched. "Sometimes things do not work out as we wish."

__

Oh great--now he probably thinks she and I were lovers and... And do I care? The woman used to hit on me every time I went within ten feet of her, even when Amy was with me. And then she started subscribing to The Gospel of St. Newsome and wouldn't even look in my direction. Let's change the subject.

"So what did Herb tell you about the cabin?"

"He told me a little of its history..."

__

That Amy and I bought it almost fifteen years ago, and then an earful about the joys of our D-I-V-O-R-C-E, no doubt.

"And that you have been living here and writing since your other house was lost to you..."

__

Lost twice—first when I moved out and left it for Amy, and second when Ted's boy Shooter burned it down.

"And that you are wanting to move away for a time. Perhaps you will live in New York City, to be near your friend?"

__

My friend? Who? Herb?

"Herb's not my friend—he's my agent."

Bain's voice was gentle. "Cannot a man be both?"

__

I don't have an answer for that and I don't want to go into my shortcomings in the friendship department, so let's change the subject again.

"Did he explain everything—how much I want, the conditions of the lease, when I want it back, all that?"

"He did, and I have no problem with any of your requests."

"Okay. Good enough. Are you still interested?"

"Very much so. I am looking for a quiet place to make my home for a time. This seems to be perfect for my needs."

"Great. Then let me show you around."

----------

They chatted as Mort gave a tour of the house. Bain was surprisingly easy to talk to, friendly and open in an easy, natural way that Mort envied. Bain volunteered the information that he worked with contracts, and had made excellent money doing so, but that he had decided to take some time off to rest and regain his health after an unfortunate accident. Since Bain seemed to be in perfect condition, Mort wondered what sort of injury the man had sustained, but he refrained from asking.

__

Let him volunteer it if he wants you to know. You start asking him personal questions and it opens the door for him to ask you personal questions, and we don't want that, do we? No. We don't.

"I guess you want to see the outside too."

"Yes, please."

Bain headed straight for the lake. "I love this. The water. The view. The remoteness of this place. This is a sanctuary of peace and solitude." He turned his head to smile over his shoulder at Mort. "I do not understand how you can bear to leave this, but I am glad I will have a chance to stay here."

Mort didn't know how to respond to that, so he kept his mouth shut, leaning against a tree and wishing he had a cigarette, while Bain explored the shoreline.

The sun was just below the horizon when they returned to the house. Bain stopped to knock the dirt off his shoes before entering, then looked around once more and rubbed his hands together. "I would very much like to rent this house, Mr. Rainey."

"Fine. We can arrange that."

"How soon can I move in?"

__

Woah. Maybe we **can't** arrange that after all.

He shifted, taking his own glance around the cabin. "I don't… I didn't think Herb would find anybody so fast." _Especially somebody so eager to move in. Shit._ "I'll need some time to pack my stuff up and…" _And what? I haven't given the first thought to what I need to do to move out of here and hand it over to somebody else. Brilliant._

"I understand. This is no problem. And there is still the matter of the rental agreement and the payment to be settled. Forgive my eagerness." Another of those warm smiles. "There is a motel over by the highway. I can stay there until—"

"No!"

__

Too quick, too sharp, too loud. Way to go, Mort. Christ.

"Sorry. I…the motel…bad memories," he mumbled, knowing how lame it sounded.

He knew Bain was staring at him, but he couldn't meet the other man's eyes, afraid Bain would see the reflection of long-ago pain. Then Bain smiled and spread his hands.

"I understand bad memories. I am sorry to have caused you to have one."

__

_Okay, if not the motel, then where is he going to stay until I get my shit together and get out of here?_ The question hung in the air between them. _I could let him stay here. No, bad idea…but why not? I don't know him, but you can bet your ass Herb would've checked him out seven ways from Sunday before he sent him out here._

"You can stay here if you'd like to."

"I do not wish to be a bother…"

"No bother. You'll have to sleep on the couch, but I can guarantee it's comfortable. And there's the half-bath you can use."

"If you are sure…"

Mort nodded.

"In that case, I accept your generous offer with many thanks."

"Okay, then." Mort gestured. "If you want to bring your things in, I'll see about cooking something."

"We could go into town. My treat."

__

Wouldn't **that** be an experience? Welcome to Tashmore Lake, Mr. Bain. Guilt by association and you'll spend the next year a pariah like me. I wouldn't wish that on anybody.

Mort sighed. "I don't exactly get along with the folks in town. Trust me. You're better off taking a chance with my cooking."

"As you wish." Bain gave a half salute and went out to his car.

----------

They talked of general, inconsequential things as Mort fried hamburgers. After the meal, they moved back to the couch, where Mort began to explain the things Bain would need to know to live in this house and this community—where the best places were to shop; how to start the generator if the electricity went off; how to get in touch with the fire department/police/a doctor. Bain listened carefully, his dark, intelligent eyes never leaving Mort's face, asking an occasional question, but mostly listening.

__

I can't remember the last time I talked this much to anybody. It feels…good.

The demonstration of the satellite dish controls turned up a movie that they both loved, so they settled back to enjoy. _And this feels good too. It's nice to have somebody to watch this with. Somebody who understands it. Amy never did. She never laughed in the right places like…I am not going to think about Amy tonight. I'm enjoying myself too much. I just wish we had some popcorn._

The movie had gone off and he was beginning to yawn when he realized he hadn't called Herb to tell him the house was definitely off the market. With a murmured apology to Bain, he fumbled with the jack, plugged in the phone, and punched in the number.

"I will leave you so that you will have privacy to…" Bain nodded toward the phone.

"Yeah, thanks."

After the fourth ring, Herb's answering machine cut in. Mort rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. _Eight-thirty and a Friday night? Of course he's gone—**everybody** in the office is gone by now._

He leaned against the back of the couch and waited for the beep. "Hey, Herb, it's Mort. I'm just calling to let you know that everything's fine with the guy you sent out. He wants to rent, so I guess we'll see you Monday to take care of the legal stuff." The second beep cut him off.

He had no sooner replaced the handset on the cradle than the phone rang. He snatched it back up.

"Herb?"

Heavy breathing. Giggles. Background whispers.

__

_Oh shit. Them again. _"Listen you little fuckers…"

He let his voice trail away. _What good is this doing? Just reinforcing what they think about me and giving them exactly what they want. Let it go. I'll be out of here in a few days and they can bother somebody else._

He didn't bother to hang up, just reached down and disconnected the jack from the wall again.

"Children today have no manners."

He looked around, startled. Bain was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded, shaking his head.

"Yeah. Well…neither do the parents."

"Something should be done about that." Bain came back into the room, his scowl deepening. "They should be taught a lesson. Have you called the sheriff?"

"It wouldn't do any good." The words were out before he thought, and he gave himself a mental shake. "It doesn't matter. They go through these phases where they call for a while, and then when I don't answer they get over it."

"So the officials are not aware of this problem."

__

_Okay, let's see…how can I explain this._ "I don't exactly get along with the local police either."

"Ah. This is part of the whole…townsfolk thing."

"Yeah. You could say that." _And you'd be right on the money if you said that. Jesus, can't we change the subject before we get into some deeply dangerous territory here?_ "I don't think they'll bother you after I'm gone. And they won't be calling any more tonight." He gestured toward the vacant wall jack. "I'm going to bed. I'll throw down some clean sheets and another pillow for you. Is there anything else you want?"

Bain smiled. It was a different smile from any Mort had seen on his face before.

"As a matter of fact…there is."


	2. Part 2

Warning and Author's Notes: 

Please read this warning before you go any further. This story contains bad language, violence, and non-graphic m/m sex, not all of it consensual. If any of these things disturb you, get out now. If not, enjoy!

For readers who've recognized Miguel Bain from "Assassins", please be advised that this is a somewhat AU version of the character. Explaining the major thing that makes **this** Bain AU would be a major spoiler for the movie…

Secrets 

Part 2

Mort shifted in the bed, raising himself just enough to allow him to flip his pillow to the cooler side and give it a solid thump, then settling back down. He closed his eyes again and tried to make his mind go blank. _Sleep. I need to go to sleep. I need to get some sleep._ His brain refused to cooperate. It insisted on galloping along in an ever-increasing upward spiral, defying all his efforts to bring his thoughts under control and shut it down.

I wonder what time it is. No. Don't look. It doesn't matter. Don't look. It'll be just one more thing to keep me awake. But I really want to know...

With a sigh, he stretched out an arm to retrieve his watch and press the button that would illuminate the dial. He moved it closer, then farther away, squinting. _Fuck it, I am **not** going to sit up and put my glasses on just so I can see what time it is. Forget it._

_There!_ He'd managed to find the perfect distance. _1:07 a.m.__ Peachy. Late, but still plenty of time to get a good night's sleep, if I can just manage to quit thinking and drift off._ He dropped the watch back in place and tucked his arm inside the covers. _What the hell's wrong with me tonight? I haven't had problems with insomnia in a long time. Maybe it's that little nap I took this afternoon. Or maybe it's just having somebody else in the house with me. Knowing I'm not here alone. This is the first time I haven't been alone since..._

Amy, smiling at him. Kissing the end of his nose. Laughing. Loving. Curling beside him in the bed. Touching him…

_Since it ended between Amy and me, and we are **not** going there tonight, pilgrim.__ That has nothing to do with this. Okay, so I'm not alone for a change. So I'm having a sleep-over. So what? He's downstairs and there's a locked door between us, so I should feel safe. And why do I need to feel safe? _

He'd felt more than a little foolish when he'd turned the lock on the bedroom door, but it had seemed a reasonable precaution. After all, Bain really **was** a stranger, even if he was a stranger whose references had probably been checked out back two generations before Herb had sent him out to look at the place and talk with Mort about renting.

_He's a stranger to me. I'm not a stranger to him. _Mort rolled onto his back and stared at the dark beams of the ceiling, letting the conversation replay in his too-active mind...

- - - -

"Is there anything else you want?"

Bain's smile, shy, unsure of himself. "As a matter of fact...there is." Reaching for the backpack he had placed beside the sofa earlier. "I love this house, Mort Rainey, and I do want to rent it and stay here for a time. But there is a reason I chose **this** place." Hand sliding into the pack, carefully pulling out a book—two books. "These are among my most treasured possessions."

Hardback first editions of Mort's earliest novels. The ones that you just didn't have anymore, unless you were willing to spend an obscene amount of money or had been a fan since Day One. Bain holding them reverently.

"If you would autograph these for me...not now, but sometime..." Another tentative smile. "I wanted to let you know tonight, tell you this so later you would not think I am here only to..." A gesture, as if words were inadequate to explain.

A fan. Shocked, not sure how to respond.

"If this changes the way you feel, I will leave." But there was something in Bain's voice, his eyes, his expression, that stopped Mort from agreeing, from saying yes, that would be the best thing.

And then... Bain opening the second book, to the back, to the brief phrase in the last chapter, six pages from the end. Finger pointing. Voice soft. "I have wondered. She killed the child, did she not?"

Mort damn near falling down right there, jaw dropping, eyes bugging. Nobody in the entire time that book had been in print had ever seen that. No reviewers, no fans, nobody. He'd had to point it out to Amy, and she'd said it was "sick". Staring at Bain, amazed, awed, astonished.

"I am right, yes?"

"Yes. But how..."

The dismissive shake of Bain's head and the twist of his mouth. "It is so obvious. How could it not be seen?" Replacing the books, smiling again, more confident now. "I would like to discuss this with you later, when there is time. May I?"

And how could he say no.

- - - -

Mort twisted again, trying to shake off the uneasiness. _Get over it, Rainey. It's just the whole "fan" thing. It takes him out of the category of "tenant" and puts him into the "maybe one of the crazies" one._

But... We had such a good evening. At least **I** did. It felt more like...like two friends having a good time than like An Author and His Fan. At least I imagine that's what it would feel like if I had a friend to have a good time with.

But I have to ask the questions now. Like, "Is he really interested in renting the place or did he just want to meet me and get my autograph?" No, for the umpteenth time, Herb would've checked that out and made sure he's serious. Besides, I believe him when he said he was serious. How 'bout this one then. "Does he want to rent the place just because it belongs to me?" That's a good one. He even said as much. He pays the rent and I go away and he starts poking and prying and digging and trying to learn all my secrets.

He gave the pillow another unproductive thump. And where did **that** come from—"poking and prying and digging"? I don't have any secrets. If he's any sort of fan of mine, which he **is** if he owns copies of those books, he knows all my so-called secrets. He knows why I've been hiding out here at the cabin. He knows about the house burning down. He knows about Amy. He knows exactly what happened that night at the motel to give me those bad memories…

Glare of the car headlights. Naked bodies scrambling to cover themselves, to get away. Screaming. Screaming…screaming…screaming. Hands to his head, wanting to cover his eyes so he couldn't see, wouldn't have to **know** that what he'd suspected was true. A gun in his hand, waving toward his wife—**his** fucking wife!—and the bastard who was fucking his fucking wife, stealing her love, taking her away from him…

He jerked upright and dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair, grasping the overlong bangs and pulling, as if he could tear the images out of his skull. Nope, no secrets there. Everybody knows, and they feel sorry for me, or they sneer at me because I wasn't man enough to keep my wife, or they think I pulled the trigger after all and killed her.

He abruptly pushed back the covers and stood, fumbling for his robe—the elegant, dark blue robe he'd bought back when he'd started on his self-improvement campaign. For a heartbeat, he wished he still had the ratty old bathrobe with the torn shoulder that Amy had worn, that he could wrap himself in it and feel her presence again. Stupid! He jerked the belt too tight and briefly bared his teeth in self-disgust.

What the fuck is wrong with me tonight? Locking the door, lying awake, thinking those maudlin thoughts about Amy and the Good Old Days. She was the one who put an end to the Good Old Days. She's the one who cheated on me. She's the one who ran away and left me alone. She's the one who ended it. Why am I still even thinking about her, much less missing her?

Because having somebody here was...nice. Not being alone. It was...

He found himself seated at his desk, his hand on the switch to the opened laptop, the screen glowing. Okay, if I can't sleep, I won't waste the night. I should be able to knock out a few pages on the new book, as long as I don't disturb Bain.

He leaned forward to peer over the railing, down to where his guest…tenant…fan was curled on the sofa. He was startled to see Bain's dark eyes staring back at him, faintly illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the windows. He opened his mouth to apologize for waking the other man, but Bain shook his head ever so slightly.

"No problemo," he murmured, in a voice just loud enough for Mort to hear. He lifted a hand to his forehead in a brief salute, then turned over to press his face against the back of the couch and settle into immobility.

It was comforting. It was disquieting. It was… What?

Mort turned his attention back to the monitor and began to type.

----------

Mort stumbled downstairs into the kitchen, staring blearily at the clock—11:30? That late? Damn!—and then at the man standing in front of the stove. I don't understand this. I don't understand this one bit.

To his surprise, seeing Bain curled on the couch in the middle of the night had set all his anxieties to rest. He'd written for over an hour, until the aching burn in his eyes had forced him to stop, then saved, backed up the file, and fallen onto the bed and into a sound, dreamless sleep. And I didn't even relock the door. I barely got the covers over me.

Just stand here staring at him like you've never seen anybody cooking before. Geez.

"'Morning."

"Good morning." Bain lifted the skillet, tilting it slightly to reveal a fried concoction which appeared to consist of eggs and corn and cheese. "I hope you don't mind."

Mort shook his head. "_Mi casa_...and all that."

Bain smiled. "I made enough for both of us."

"Great. Thanks." He passed the coffeepot in favor of a can of Mountain Dew, popping the top and drinking deeply before muttering apologetically, "I didn't mean to wake you up last night..."

"No, no. Do not apologize." Bain was dividing the mixture and sliding it onto two plates. "I do not write, but I can understand how it is when you have the need to create." He placed a fork on one of the plates and handed it to Mort.

Mort nodded his thanks and carried the plate and his soda to the couch. Bain followed close behind with his own plate and cup of coffee.

Mort took a tentative bite, then another, bigger one. "This is good," he mumbled, his mouth full. More than good. I haven't had anything that tasted like this since...in years. But then I'm not much of a cook, am I? Opening a can of soup or nuking a frozen dinner doesn't exactly count. "Really good."

Bain grinned with pleasure. "It is nothing special. A thing my mother used to make. I am glad you like it."

They finished in silence. Mort scraped up the last bite and briefly contemplated licking the plate clean, then mentally shook himself and set the dish aside. Let's not add fuel to the weird author fire this morning. Let's just get on with the day.

"If you're sure you want to rent the cabin for the next year..."

"I am."

"Okay." He upended the can and drained it. "I won't be able to get in touch with Herb or my lawyer until Monday to get the lease drawn up, but I'll go ahead and start packing up my stuff."

"There is no rush, you know," Bain said softly. "I am...honored...to be your guest. I would be more honored, when the legalities are done, if you would be mine for a time. For as long as it takes for you to ready yourself to go."

Mort stared into the wide, dark eyes and saw nothing there but sincerity. Warmth. An offer of... Friendship? Is it really that or is it just the whole fanboy thing?

As if reading his mind, Bain added quickly, "From reading your books, I feel I know something of you, Mort Rainey. All of us—those who love you—your…fans—must say this to you, but I feel..." His fingertips moved from his chest to touch Mort's. "A connection with you. I hope this does not disturb you."

It would have, before last night. Before Bain asked about the murder of the child in the book, the murder that nobody—**nobody**—but him ever saw. Maybe there **is** a connection.

"No. It doesn't." And he meant it.

Bain's face lit up. "Thank you. And to show you that I am sincere..." He went for the backpack again. "I brought this."

Mort's eyes went wide as Bain began to pull stacks of cash from the backpack, one after the other. Bain placed them in a neat pile on the couch between them, moved his fingertips over them, counting, then reached for yet another stack. "I hope this will be enough for a start. I am giving the extra..." He gestured. "To help pay for groceries for while we are here."

Mort sat gaping at the mound of green. "This is…um..." A fucking lot of money.

"I hope you do not mind the cash." A furrow appeared between Bain's eyes. "I have no account in any bank nearby, and I thought this would be easier."

"It's fine. It's just..." Mort cleared his throat. "Unexpected. It's okay."

"Is there someplace that I can put this for you, out of the way?"

Gee, I don't know. Where **do** you hide that much money? "I guess...I'll put it in the desk upstairs." He began to gather up the bundles. A fucking **lot** of money.

"I will take care of the dishes then, while you do of that." Bain rose.

"Yeah. Thanks. Oh..." Mort paused, trying to balance the stacks. "Do you have much stuff you need to pick up? To bring here when you move in?"

Bain shook his head. "I am bringing only my clothes and a few books. Anything else that I need, I will buy."

"Okay, then. I guess I'll start..." He shook his head and turned to climb the stairs.

----------

He shoved the money into an oversize envelope he found in his desk and then tucked it away in the bottom drawer. I wonder if I should let him have the bed now. Is it his place, now that I have the money, or is it still mine until the contract's signed? I didn't even stop to count the money—great businessman, Mort. Herb would shit a brick if he knew I'd taken a wad of cash from a potential renter and didn't even count it.

Somehow it seemed too much of an effort to pull it back out to count. I'll do it later, and not tell Herb. I have enough other stuff to do right now.

When he began looking around the bedroom and thinking about the things he wanted to take with him, he was saddened at how little there was. All the years I've lived here, and this is all I've got to show for it. Okay, a lot of stuff went in the fire but still... That was three years ago. You'd think in all that time I'd have gotten **something** worth taking.

He came out of the bedroom to find Bain hovering politely at the top of the stairs. "The dishes are put away. Would you mind if I showered?"

"No, help yourself. Clean towels are in the wardrobe there."

"Gracias." Bain touched Mort's shoulder lightly as he walked by, a quick pat. "I will not take long."

"No rush."

Mort sat down at the desk and opened the laptop again, powering up, calling up his file, and rereading what he'd written in the middle of the night. Not bad. He made a correction or two, then stopped, cocking his head to listen.

The sounds of running water and pleasant singing—in Spanish—floated out from the bathroom. Mort was surprised to find himself smiling. There's a total stranger in my shower. And it feels **good**. It's good to have somebody here. I almost wish...

The water shut off. Mort busied himself pretending to write, eyes on the screen, ears following the sounds of the shower doors sliding, a voice humming, then footsteps padding through the bedroom. He gave a quick glance sideways as Bain emerged, clothes in one hand, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair curling damply around his ears.

"Done already?"

"Sí. Thank you." Bain flashed his teeth in a grin. "I will dress and…" He stopped, his dark eyes flickering across the desk. "Would you mind if I ask you about your computer? I will be needing a new one while I am here. My older one..." He lifted his free hand, wriggling it in a definite "crash and burn" motion, and shrugged.

"Sure. What do you want to know?"

"This type—you are pleased with it?"

Mort nodded and scooted his chair back in invitation. "Very. Have a look."

Bain dragged the stuffed chair—Chico's chair—closer and leaned forward to examine the configuration. He immediately looked away.

"You should not show me your work, Mort Rainey," he said softly. "I do not wish you to think I am trying to spy on you."

Mort met Bain's eyes for a long moment, then nodded his thanks and closed the file.

It quickly became apparent that Bain knew a great deal more about computers than Mort, but he continued to speak as if he were the learner and Mort the teacher. The time sped without Mort being aware of it as they discussed the merits of various brands and types of computers and of assorted software packages and even, eventually, games.

"What games do you have on this?"

"None. Well, maybe Solitaire, but that's all. I don't do computer games. Sorry."

Bain's eyes lit up. "We will go into town today and buy whatever is needed to rectify this deficiency. Is there a computer store in New London?" He shook his head and laughed. "A foolish question. Is there any town without a computer store?"

"Tashmore Lake." The words were out before Mort thought. He lowered his head. The city. My city, and I can't even go there anymore and I say the words and they hang in the air like a big dark cloud. Shit.

Bain's hand came up to cup his chin and lift it. "We do not need to go there. Do not let them…"

There was a tension in the fingers touching Mort's jaw, something almost… protective in Bain's face, in the tone of his voice. Mort had an absolutely ridiculous desire to lean toward the other man, a yearning toward the physical contact he hadn't realized he'd missed.

Jesus Christ, you fucking idiot, get a life. You're sitting here with a half-naked man and you start leaning toward him and he's going to think… He sure as hell won't think you just want a hug. Or that you want to stop with a hug. You'll be lucky if all he does is beat the shit out of you.

Bain let his hand drop and stood, gathering his clothing. "I will dress, and then we will go computer shopping for both of us." As he passed behind Mort, his fingers danced across Mort's shoulders, teasing. "And then I will show you how to network our computers and play shooting games and we will kill each other many times."

"Peachy." And, to his surprise, Mort realized he meant it.

----------

It was the best weekend in more months—in more **years**—than Mort could remember. Their trip to New London's computer store, resulting in a selection of enough components and games to fill the trunk and back seat of Bain's car. Picking up fried chicken from the KFC drive-through and sprawling on the floor in front of the TV, eating and laughing over an I Love Lucy rerun. Mort struggling to learn how to play the games; Bain's patient instruction, as if it were important; Mort accepting gracefully when he knew that Bain had allowed him to win. Spending hours talking about books and channel-surfing and discovering how similar their tastes in entertainment were. And just sitting quietly together, Bain reading while Mort set the laptop on the coffee table and worked. Bain hadn't asked a single question about Mort's new novel, although Mort had caught a glimmer of interest in the dark eyes more than once.__

Mort lay in bed, listening to the sound of the rain on the roof. It's Monday. I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want to get up. Monday means it's over. It's time for me to call Herb and get the lease stuff going and then pack up and…leave. Bain'll probably be glad to be rid of me and have the place to himself, but shit…I'm going to miss him. Stupid.

"Are you awake?"

Mort turned his head at the sound of Bain's voice and the discreet tapping at the bedroom door. "Yeah. Come on in. I was just trying to get up enough energy to…"

"A day like this is a day without energy." Bain crossed the room and held out a steaming cup. "I thought this might help you."

"Thanks." Mort pushed himself to a sitting position and took the coffee, sipping carefully. It was hot and strong, and it did help to clear away the cobwebs. "Lot to do today," he mumbled.

"Like…?" Bain waved at the foot of the bed and, when Mort nodded, perched there companionably.

"Call Herb. Pack. Change the sheets, clean the bathroom, load up the car…"

Bain laughed and placed a hand on the blankets covering Mort's ankle. "There is no rush. Not on a day like this." His fingers tightened quickly in a friendly grip, then released. His face lost its humor. "Where will you be going?"

_I don't have the first fucking clue. __New York__? Where **am** I going to go when I leave here? When I leave… Ah shit. I like Bain. Not **that **kind of like, but…okay, well, yeah, I **do **like it when he touches me, but it's not… It doesn't mean anything, just friendship. He's just one of those touchy-feely people who hug you and ruffle your hair and put their hands on your arm when they talk and… It's just been such a long time since anybody's touched me with any kind of affection. I like it. I like him. He's the first person I've liked this much in…_

"Mort?"

"Sorry." He shook himself. "I'm not sure yet. Herb will find me a place."

"You can stay here until he does."

"That's not fair to you."

Bain's expression went soft. "It is fair, my friend." He stood. "Come with me now, downstairs. We will sit on our porch and watch the rain and wonder if it will turn to the winter's first snowfall. And then we will have lunch. And then you can write. And later, when it is not raining, we will discuss what comes next."

Because all that was exactly what he wanted, and wanted badly, Mort found himself smiling and nodding. _Okay. It can wait. Herb'll be there tomorrow._

----------

At some point during the afternoon, Mort realized that he'd left the phone unplugged since the day Bain had arrived. He bent to hook it up as he passed by, not totally surprised when the phone began to ring almost immediately. _Shit._

Bain stopped him with an upraised hand. "Let me."

_Why not?_ He gave a sweeping "be my guest" wave of his arm.

"Hello?"

Mort could tell by the expression on Bain's face that it was the kids again. _Don't they ever give up? Don't they ever get tired?_ He watched as Bain's amiable features hardened, eyes narrowing and mouth tightening. Bain allowed their abuse to go on for a full sixty seconds before he spoke.

"That is enough." The tone of his voice sent a shiver down Mort's spine. "This is going to be my house now, and this will be my telephone, but that does not matter. You will treat me with the respect you should have shown to Mort Rainey. You will never call again. If you do, I will come into town, and I will find you, and I will wrap your tiny balls around your ignorant neck. _Comprende_? Now run away and tell your parents that I have threatened you, so that **they** can call me to complain. And then I can explain to them how their children should be supervised and disciplined."

By the time Bain slammed down the receiver, Mort was almost doubled over with laughter. "That was beautiful. Just beautiful."

Bain wasn't laughing. "I will do this," he said simply. "I will not going to allow them to fuck with me."

Mort forced his face into a sober expression. "You know, somehow I don't think they will."

"Good. Now let us eat."

Bain had gone onto the porch to watch the continuing rain when the phone rang for the second time that night, so Mort answered it, prepared to deal with the aftershocks. _What are a few irate parents? How much more can they hate me?_

"Hello?"

"Mort? I've been trying to call you all day. What the hell's going on?"

"Hi, Herb, nice to talk to you too." He turned to lean against the back of the couch. "I had the phone unplugged. Damn kids again. But I think it may be under control now. That guy you sent out—"

"Wait—hold it! That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"What?"

"The message you left Friday. I don't know what you mean."

Mort rolled his eyes. "It means pull the ads for the house. It's rented. The guy you sent wants it. All we need is for you to—"

"Mort, I didn't send anybody out there."

In the silence that followed, as Mort was trying to process what Herb had just said, he heard a single footstep behind him. He spun. And found himself staring into the barrel of a very large and very serious gun. _A real gun.__ Not the kind in the computer game. Well, that kind, only…real._

"Tell him you will call him back," Bain whispered.

"Uh…" He licked his lips, swallowed hard, tried again. "There's…uh…been some sort of…of misunderstanding."

"Mort? Are you all right?"

Oh fuck, if you only knew. Oh fuck oh fuck.

"Yeah, fine. Let me…um…I'll call you back tomorrow."

"Mort…"

Bain gestured with the gun. Mort slowly replaced the receiver, cutting Herb off in mid-question, then stepped away from the phone.

_I don't understand. He was…we had…I **like** him. But Herb said… What's going on here?_

"Bain…"

"Sit down, Mort Rainey. You look as if you are going to fall."

_No shit, Sherlock—and with good reason._ "Who are you? What do you want?"

"I am who I said. But as for what I want…that is different. A little." Bain jerked his head toward the couch. "I think now is a good time for us to sit down and discuss it, sí?"

Bain smiled.


	3. Part 3

Please read this warning before you go any further. This story contains bad language, violence, and non-graphic m/m sex, not all of it consensual. If any of these things disturb you, get out now. 

The characters in this story do not belong to me. I'm only borrowing them. Apologies for not always playing nicely with my toys.

I forgot to thank the amazing Miss Becky at the start of Part 2, and I'm too lazy to remove it and upload it again, so… 

Double thank yous to Miss Becky for beta-reading and for being such a wonderful, evil, lovely person. You're the best!

Secrets 

by Melody Wilde

Part 3

This is not happening. Not again.

But it was. Bain had stepped back out of arm's reach, waiting patiently for Mort to move. To follow orders.

_Oh my god he **is** a crazy fan after all and he's going to kill me and nobody will ever know and they wouldn't care if they did because everybody hates me and oh shit I can't breathe I think I'm going to pass out…_

He felt his knees hit the floor, and then there was nothing but blessed oblivion.

The side of his face and the bridge of his nose were throbbing, each steady thump in tandem with his heartbeat. He lay very still, concentrating on breathing in and out until he was sure the danger of vomiting was past, then tried to move.

"Shhh. Be still."

_Bain?__ What… Oh fuck!_ His eyes snapped open. He was on the couch, flat on his back. The other man was kneeling beside him, brows furrowed in a slight frown.

"No!" Mort tried to jerk away, and realized his hands were tied together. "Don't…"

"Shhh," Bain repeated, leaning in to press a cold, damp cloth to his cheek. "It is all right, Mort Rainey."

_All right?__ There's nothing "all right" about this situation. What the hell…_

"How do you feel?"

Mort's mouth opened, but no words came out. _How do I feel? You came here and lied to me and waved a gun at me and now you have me tied up on my own couch and you want to know how I feel? Are you crazy?_

He was very much afraid the answer to that one was "yes".

"I know what you must be thinking." Bain shifted upward to perch on the edge of the couch beside Mort. "But you have no reason to worry. I am not here to kill you. This is not about killing."

"Who…who are you?"

Bain clicked his tongue against his teeth in a sound of exasperation. "I **told** you. I am Miguel Bain. I am a fan of your work, and, over the past days, I have come to like you very much as a person as well as an author. I am also a man who needs a place to stay for a time…although perhaps not for an entire year. I **was** deceitful about that."

Oh great. Like **that's** important right now. In my opinion, lying about the terms of the lease is a little lower on the crime list than pulling a gun on me and tying me up. 

Bain brushed his face with a fingertip, and Mort flinched away. "You hit your face when you fell. I will get some ice to put on it, so it will not swell. And there is a cut on the bridge of your nose. Your glasses did that."

He tried again to lift his arms. Bain shook his head. "I did not want to do that, but I was afraid if I did not restrain you, you would do yourself further harm."

Am I supposed to thank him? "What do you want from me?" 

"That is a little complicated. Even more so than when I first came here"

"I seem to have plenty of time."

Bain laughed softly. "All right. Let me tell you a story and try to explain. I realize that **you** are the true storyteller, but I will try not to be too boring." He paused. "Where to begin? Perhaps with a clarification of a thing. When I told you that I worked with contracts, I was, once again, somewhat deceitful. The contracts that I work with are those placed on men's lives. The termination of men's lives."

Mort stared at him, mind struggling to accept what it desperately wanted to reject. "You…" His voice came out as a hoarse croak. "You mean you're a…hitman?"

"I prefer the term 'assassin', but yes, that is what I do. For many years, it was my goal to become the top in my chosen field, as you have become one of the top writers in your chosen field. But there was a man in my way. A man I had admired for a very long time."

Oh Jesus God please don't let him tell me that he killed the man he admired, that he routinely kills men he admires, that he…

"His name does not matter. You would not know it. But he is…" Bain shook his head and laughed again. "Very famous in our line of work. The best. For years I studied him—how he worked, what weapons he used, how he behaved. I began to steal contracts from him, just to prove to him that I am the better assassin. And then…" Bain gestured. "We met.

"We met, and we fought, and he tried to kill me. He believed he had succeeded. But he made a foolish mistake. He went away—left with the woman who should have been the one killed that day—and he did not check to be sure I was dead."

Bain rose and headed toward the kitchen, his voice floating back over his shoulder. "I was badly hurt, but I survived." The refrigerator door opened and closed, then a cabinet door, then another. "I healed. And I decided that I would disappear for a time. That I would leave my life behind. Go away, to a new place, with new people. Much as you planned to do."

He returned with a sandwich-size baggie full of ice. "Hold still now." With amazing gentleness, he settled the makeshift icepack on the side of Mort's face, arranging it to cover the cheekbone and eye. "How does that feel?"

"Cold."

Bain laughed as if he had made a joke. "When I heard that you were interested in renting your home, it seemed to me to be the answer to a prayer."

Oh great. Answer to a nutcase assassin's prayer. That's just what I always wanted to be when I grew up.

"You see, I have wanted to meet you for…" He waved his hands and shrugged. "It seems such a short time when I say it. Since _Four Secrets_."

_Four Secrets_. The book he had written in an astonishingly short time—only seven weeks—just after Amy and Ted had vanished, but before the unpleasantness in the town had started. The writers' block that had crippled him for the previous six months was suddenly gone. In fact, he had gone in the other direction, the words pouring out of him, through his fingers and onto the screen. Mrs. Garvey had still been coming to clean house then, and she had brought casseroles and sandwiches and pastries, worried that he wasn't taking time to eat. She'd been right. For those weeks, there had been nothing but the writing. At the end, he'd delivered a best-seller to Herb and his reputation had been restored. In literary circles anyway.

Bain was staring at him. Waiting for him to come back from his walk down Memory Lane and say something. But there really wasn't anything to say. Bain was hardly the only person who had bought, read, and adored that book, nor the only one who was desperate to meet its reclusive author.

"It was in a book store in Atlanta." Bain moved to scan the bookshelves, searching. "I was not there to buy a book, of course. The mark I had been following…" He turned his head. "A 'mark' is the person I have been paid to terminate," he explained, before returning to his search. "He was shopping in the store. It was a large store, and it was crowded—very crowded. I thought perhaps I could catch him alone in one of the aisles and…poof!" He waved a hand. "He would be gone, and then I would be gone. But he would not cooperate."

Ungrateful bastard, not cooperating with you. Shit, this man is nuts. Fucking nuts.

"He kept moving through the popular fiction, out in the middle of the store. And so I stopped and pretended to be looking for something to read. And then I saw it. Ah!" He pulled a book from the shelf, spun, and waved it in triumph. One of Mort's First Editions of _Four Secrets_.

Bain re-crossed the room, his face animated. "**This **was staring at me." He turned the book over to display the author's photo on the back of the dust jacket, as if Mort hadn't seen it a thousand times. "**You** were staring at me."

It was one of his better photos, taken during the early stages of his self-improvement binge. Although you really couldn't tell it from the black and white photo, his hair was all one color again, with no roots, and it had been cut and styled especially for the occasion. He'd ditched the oversize glasses in favor of the wire-rims. And the photographer, in an attempt to show his smile without showing the braces he'd been wearing at the time, had asked him to duck his head a little, so that his upper lip hid the metal and he was peering slightly upward. Herb had said he looked like a fallen angel and had laughingly insisted that the picture had sold more copies of the book than the excellent reviews the novel had received.

Mort looked from the photo to Bain. Again, the man was waiting for Mort to speak. This time, Mort decided to oblige.

"Okay, so you saw the picture of me. So? You started reading the book and let your guy get away?"

"No, no, no. I could not do that. When he went to the men's room I followed him and killed him there and left him in one of the stalls." Bain waved a hand again, as if that were of no consequence. "But then I went back out and bought a copy of the book. I took it back to my hotel room and…" He ducked his head and gave an embarrassed half-laugh.

Mort bit. "And?"

Bain lay the book on the coffee table and knelt by the couch, a little closer than Mort found comfortable. "I now have to tell you something else about myself. In my life, there have been many women…and many men…but that day, looking at your picture…"

Oh god, don't let him say he fell in love with me! Please! God, goddess, whoever or whatever's out there…

"I looked at your face, and my dick became so hard that I believed I was going to pass out, right there in the store. In fact…" He gave another snort of laughter. "After I had killed the mark, I had to go into the next stall to relieve myself before I could continue. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. Nothing like this has happened to me since, not with any person."

Mort's mouth had gone dry at the first sentence. _Oh shit. Just when I think it can't possibly get worse._

"Since that day, every time I have fucked someone, I have seen your face. Imagined that it was your body beneath me. It has become an obsession with me. Even when I lay bleeding and sure that I was dying…all I could think of was how much I wanted you."

"You're crazy." Terror finally broke Mort's paralysis and he began to struggle, trying to fling himself upright, off the couch. Bain caught his shoulders and effortlessly pushed him back down.

"Would it help if I told you that I read your book—all your books—and enjoyed them? That I felt I understood you, through them. That I became your fan as well as…the other? I did not lie about that."

"Let me go! Get away from me! Leave me alone!"

Useless…pointless…fuck fuck fuck why did I stop working out with the weights…I can't get away from him…

But that didn't stop him from trying. He thrashed and fought against the restraining hands until, with a sharp sound of annoyance, Bain backhanded him. He sank back, the world spinning again, tasting blood.

"I did not want to do that." Bain's voice was hard now. "But you give me no choice. I do not want to hurt you, Mort Rainey. I am not here to hurt you or to kill you."

Then why…oh but wait…I know the answer now, don't I? I know what you're here for, Jesus fucking Christ. And when you get what you want…then what? Will you go away and leave me alone?

"I came here for one purpose, and one purpose only. To end my obsession with you by satisfying it. To meet you. To seduce you. To have you. But now…" His eyes narrowed, and suddenly Mort could believe that this man was a killer. "Now, I think there are other things I should do also."

Mort's tongue darted out to moisten his lips. He had to try twice before he could whisper, "What?"

"There are people in your town who need education in the proper way to behave to a famous author in their midst. I would be happy to provide that education for them, as a favor to you. To try to make this a place where you will be happy to stay, if you choose to return here, later. After all…" Bain moved his face even closer to Mort's. Mort could feel the man's breath on his lips. "You are going to do a favor for me. It is only right that I should do one for you in return."

He wanted to scream that he wasn't going to do anything for this man—that Bain should pack up and leave, the sooner the better, and take his money with him. But something in Bain's expression held him silent.

"And now…" Bain abruptly released him and rose. "It is late. I think it is time for bed. We can talk more about this in the morning, after breakfast, sí?"

Time for bed. Oh shit.

"I cannot risk untying you, so let me help you." One of Bain's hands slid beneath his shoulders to pull him into a sitting position. "Can you stand?"

He could, but his legs were shaking, the knees threatening to buckle. "Please…" He was disgusted at the sound of his own voice, weak, pleading, pitiful. "Please don't…"

"I told you that I am not going to hurt you." Bain slid an arm around his shoulders. "Not unless you force me to do so." He guided Mort toward the stairs.

Mort balked on the bottom one. I can't do this. I can't just walk upstairs and let him…let him… His mind refused to complete the thought.

"Please…"

Bain did not speak. He simply placed his hands beneath Mort's elbows and forced him up the steps, then into the bedroom. "We will both sleep here tonight. It will be crowded, but we will manage."

The trembling had spread to Mort's whole body. He fought back the whimper that was rising in his throat, and tried to brace himself against the forward momentum. When Bain released him, he almost fell backwards, but a steadying hand was there to support him.

"I will help you undress."

Bain leaned back to close and lock the bedroom door, then slid his arms around Mort, hands reaching for his belt. Mort flinched.

"No…please…"

To his astonishment, Bain released him, circling to stand in front of him, expression unreadable. His gaze slid down Mort's body, then back up. Then, with a click of annoyance, he spun Mort and pushed him backward, down onto the bed.

Mort squirmed helplessly as Bain moved with him, straddling him. As the man caught his bound hands, pulled them above his head, and held them there with a humiliating ease. As Bain leaned closer and began to shift downward, pressing against his body, twisting to slide a knee between his legs. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away.

"Look at me."

No. No. No.

"I said look at me." The knee pressed painfully upward and Mort's eyes flew open. "That is much better. It would be good for both of us if you would learn to listen to what I ask of you. Comprende?"

He nodded, and the pressure eased. "Good. Good. Now listen to what I have to say to you. Are you listening?"

Mort nodded again.

"Here is the last thing I did not tell you. Being with you, talking with you, learning to know you and becoming your friend… The past few days have changed my feelings for you." He gave a self-depreciating laugh. "I hoped that you were feeling it also, this…connection between us. There is now a fondness, where before there was only a lust that needed gratification. My feelings for you have become more than just the sex. But being close to you like this…touching your body with mine…it almost makes me lose control."

Oh god oh god oh god.

"I do not like this feeling. I do not like this business of not being in control. You are making me feel like a horny teenager again." He rubbed his pelvis against Mort's leg, and Mort could feel the rigid flesh inside the man's jeans. "I want to take you know. But I do not want to take you against your will. I want it to be a thing of goodness for both of us. Can you understand this?"

Not a word of it except that you aren't going to rape me right now.

"For now, I want you to lie here and not move. I am going to tie you to the bed, so that I can feel safe sleeping here. All right?"

Mort managed a small nod.

"Good." Bain released him and stood. Mort remained where he was, afraid to do more than breathe as Bain pulled his arms up to bind his wrists to the iron headboard of the bed, immobilizing him. "Is this too tight?"

Mort shook his head.

"Good, good." Bain removed Mort's shoes before placing bindings around his ankles to hold them together. "Can you be comfortable here?"

Comfortable? Like **this**? You really are crazy.

Bain must have taken his silence for agreement, for he stood and began to strip away his clothing. Mort closed his eyes, refusing to look, until he heard Bain chuckle.

"Ah. I think I am going to have to do something about him if I am to sleep tonight."

The assassin was naked, all taut muscles and patterns of dark curling hair. He was staring down at the erection jutting forward from his body. Mort must have made some sound, for the dark eyes moved back to him.

"I am told he is beautiful," Bain said immodestly. "He serves me well."

Mort looked away. Oh Jesus god he's huge. He's going to kill me if he tries to…

"I hope you will not mind if I look at your face as I…" He paused. "Take care of myself."

No, no, just sit here and stare at me while you jerk off, great, fine, no problem, happens every day. Oh fuck. I've got to get away from him.

Bain seated himself on the edge of the bed, one hand reaching out to touch Mort's cheek. Mort flinched.

"I'm sorry. Does it hurt?" A gentle fingertip traced across the bridge of his nose, down his cheekbone. "You are a beautiful man, Mort Rainey."

Mort stared resolutely at the ceiling as he heard the sounds begin—bet I can guess what you're doing—and heard Bain's breathing quicken.

"Look at me."

No fucking way.

"I said look at me." The edge was back in Bain's voice. Reluctantly, he rolled his head to the side and stared at Bain's face.

"Not there. Here." Mort hesitated, and Bain snapped, "Now!"

He looked. He watched as Bain brought himself to a climax, listened to the man's groans of pleasure, and was thoroughly disgusted to realize that his own body was stirring in response. If this is turning you on, it's been **way** too long. Shit…but then how long have I been here alone, without even a dirty book or movie to fuel some fantasies. I can't even remember the last time I…

"Are you finished?" he snapped, turning toward Bain some of the anger he felt toward himself.

Bain laughed and bent over to place a noisy kiss on his forehead. "Yes. Thank you. I will clean up now before I come to bed."

Mort lay there, rigid with loathing for himself and for Miguel Bain, as the other man wiped up the mess, made a quick trip to the bathroom, then returned to settle beside him in the bed. He ignored the soft "good night" and continued to stare up at the ceiling, his thoughts racing, long after Bain's breathing had evened and turned into soft snores.


	4. Part 4

Warning, danger, Will Robinson. This story contains bad language, violence, and non-graphic m/m sex, not all of it consensual. This story is rated "R" for a reason, and it's beginning to move into darker territory now. If any of these things disturb you, get out now. If not, enjoy! 

For some reason, no matter how I attempt to upload these parts (Word, HTML, RTF), something is stripping away about half of my "italics" codes. This is important (at least to me), since I've used italics to indicate Mort's thoughts, but (to be honest here) I'm so tired of fooling with things that won't upload or attach properly that I've just about quit caring. I hope you all can follow it without all the italics. If not, I'm posting the story to my Live Journal too. However (big warning here), as it becomes appropriate, the version there will be the NC-17 rated one, while this is the R-rated one. Please choose the version appropriate for your age and your sensibilities.

Neither of these guys are mine. No copyright infringement intended and all that.  
  
This continues to be for Miss Becky, with love and immense gratitude!

* * *

Secrets 

by Melody Wilde

Part 4

Amy was snuggling against his back, her chin resting lightly on his shoulder, her lips teasing his earlobe, her fingers slipping down his stomach. Some distant part of him knew that this wasn't right—that she didn't love him anymore, that she'd never be his pretty little wife again—but it didn't matter at that moment, as she unbuttoned his jeans and worked the zipper downward. Amy, my beautiful Amy. Oh god, how he'd missed her!

Her hand was deep inside his clothing now, inside his shorts, grasping him just…oh shit, **there**, touching him the way she knew he loved to be touched, stroking, bringing his body to aching life. He turned toward her with a groan…

"Good morning."

His eyes snapped open. The face staring back at him was not his wife's. Dreaming. I was dreaming. But I can feel…oh shit...

Bain tilted his head slightly and raised his eyebrows in apology. "I'm sorry. You were sleeping so deeply…I just couldn't resist." He removed his hand, slowly, dancing fingertips up across Mort's belly.

"Jesus," Mort breathed, trying to scoot away from the other man. "You...you..."

Bain lifted himself onto one elbow. "You didn't seem to mind so much," he said mildly.

No, I sure **didn't** seem to mind so much. Shit shit shit. Mort could feel his erection straining against the front of his jeans. Peachy. Just peachy keen.

"Would you like for me to continue? I would enjoy that, very much."

Bain's voice was soft. Seductive. For just a heartbeat, Mort wondered what it would be like—what would happen if he said yes. It felt good, no getting around that, felt damn good to have somebody touching me like that. It's been so fucking long... No, wait, stop thinking with the other head and get real here. Oh yeah, that's a really great idea. Let him start touching you. Sure, it would feel good, but then what. Then he's going to want you to reciprocate. Only he isn't going to stop with just the touching, now is he.

Mort twisted his body away from Bain's as much as possible and shook his head. "No."

"Ah. Too bad." Bain rolled out of bed and reached for his jeans. "I would have made sure that you, also, enjoyed it, very much." He pulled a dark t-shirt over his head. "Would you like to shower? I have already done so, as you slept."

Actually, yes, I'd like a shower and I'd like to piss and I'd like to do something—do it myself, though, and in private—about this boner.

"Are you going to keep me tied up like this?"

"No." Bain perched on the side of the bed and began to undo the bonds around Mort's ankles. "There is no need. I have checked your house for weapons and removed anything that you could use to harm yourself."

"Don't you mean things I could use to harm **you**?" The words were out before he could stop them.

Bain's smile was feral. "No. Because you could not harm me. If you attempted to do so, I would be forced to…" Another wave of his hand, a wave which spoke volumes. "To stop you."

And he could. No doubt about it. He does things like this for a living.

Bain reached for Mort's wrists and gave a wicked smile. "Do you need help with your shower?"

"No."

Bain laughed as he undid the last knot and stood. "Then I will go and fix breakfast. Take your time."

Mort knew it was pointless, but he still locked the bathroom door behind him before he stripped and reached into the shower to turn on the water. He adjusted the temperature, then straightened and stared down at himself in disgust. Okay, first things first.

He stepped into the tub, slid the doors closed, and flipped the lever to make the water flow over him. It felt good, pouring down through his hair, over his shoulders, down his body. He enjoyed that sensation for a moment before reaching down to grasp himself.

Let's just take matters in hand here and get it over with. Shit, I can't believe I'm doing this. And I can't believe **he's** the one who caused it.

He leaned against the shower wall, braced himself, and set his fingers in motion. Unbidden, the image of Bain, performing this same act the night before, sprang to his mind, followed by the memory of the hand on him in the dream-that-was-not-a-dream. He caught his breath at his body's response.

Fine. Then I'll think about that. Whatever works.

He began to stroke, slowly, then faster, his head tipping back to rest against the wall, lower lip catching between his teeth, moving faster, harder, until, with a muffled groan, he came.

I haven't come that hard since **I** was a horny teenager. What the fuck is going on here?

He didn't want to pursue that line of thought, so he busied himself with finishing his shower, shaving, and dressing.

Bain was standing at the foot of the steps when he finally forced himself to go downstairs. "You took so long, I was beginning to be afraid the food would go cold."

"Sorry." Mort walked past him, heading for the kitchen. He dropped into one of the chairs and reached for the cup of coffee waiting for him. Bain sat across from him, his expression bland.

_He's acting like we're just a normal couple having breakfast, not a madman and his prisoner. Stephen King would love this scenario. Oh wait...Stephen King **wrote** this scenario. Amy and I watched the movie and laughed and said something like that could never happen. Ha ha ha._

"You will want these." Bain held out the wire-rimmed glasses. "I do not think they were damaged."

Mort took them, gave them a cursory inspection, then settled them onto his face. The right nose piece hurt like a son of a bitch, and he lifted them, shifting the weight.

"I have been thinking of the things that must be done today," Bain began. "I believe the first thing we must do is contact your agent and straighten out your misunderstanding. We would not want him to come here to check on you."

_Maybe you wouldn't, but I might._ No, he corrected himself immediately. Herb would be no match for this man. Bain would kill him without a thought.

"All right."

"I thought you would argue." Bain seemed mildly surprised.

"Why? You've got the gun."

"It will not always be like this, Mort."

_Oh shit, now what? Does he think we can go back to being friends? After **this**? Does he think we're going to settle down together and live happily ever after? That we **will** be a normal couple someday?_

"After you make the call, I need to go into town for food. I have been looking at your shelves and your refrigerator…" He shook his head and made a disapproving sound. "There are many things we will need. And I would like to speak with some of the townspeople."

"Can I go too?"

Bain laughed. "You are a funny man, Mort Rainey. You will be tied to your bed, of course, and gagged, in case anyone comes by. I am sorry," _and damned if he doesn't sound sincere about that_, "but you must see that it is a necessity. Now..." Bain stood. "Eat your breakfast so we can begin."

Herb's secretary put Mort on hold for less than thirty seconds before she connected him to his agent. _One of the perks of being a best-selling author—no waiting in line.__ Oh, but say, Herb, bad news for you if Bain should decide to kill me. No more novels from __Tashmore__Lake__'s resident author/pariah._

"Mort! Good to hear from you!"

Mort couldn't help thinking that Herb's voice was disgustingly jovial, considering the situation his best client was currently in. "Yeah," he said shortly. "Look, we seem to have gotten our wires crossed on this rental thing."

"What's this about the man you said I sent out?"

"My mistake. I misunderstood him. But it's okay."

"How did he get your address?"

"A friend of mine told him about the place. Suggested he drop by and meet with me." _Oh yeah, one of my hundreds of friends, but Herb doesn't know what a fucking lie that is._ "He did, and he likes it, and he's going to take it."

"I'd rather you'd let me check him out first, but...hey... That's great. So when can we expect you in New York?"

_Good question. Good, good question._ "I'm not sure. He has to bring some stuff in and I need to get some stuff out. It'll be several days. I'll let you know."

"Okay, then. I'll pull the ads and see you…whenever. Take care."

"Yeah. You too, Herb."

He held the receiver, clinging to it, for a long moment after Herb had hung up. Then Bain reached out to take it from him and replace it on the cradle.

"You did well."

"Yeah. I did well. Peachy."

At least Bain had tried to make him comfortable, placing padding between the bindings and his skin, hauling pillows up from the couch to prop around his body, asking several times if he was sure he could breathe around the gag. But the end result was the same. _Tied to my own fucking bed again, like some cheap porno star._

After Bain left, Mort struggled against the ropes for a long time, knowing it was useless, but trying anyway. Finally, wrists and ankles bruised, exhausted, he gave up. _Okay. Deep breaths. Relax. This isn't doing any good. Bain's a professional. My best bet is to settle back and wait._

He lay watching the sun creep across the wall, wondering how much time had passed. He tried to think about the plot of his book, where he would live if...when...he got away from the cabin, anything but what was happening now. What was going to happen at some point in the future. _Considering the way Bain touched me this morning, probably the very near future._

Amazingly, he slept for a while, waking to find late afternoon shadows in the room. _Oh Jesus, what if he decided not to come back. What if something happened to him, a car wreck or a shoot-out with the new sheriff or a fight with somebody in town or… No. I'm not going to panic. I could die here and nobody would know. I'm not going to panic._

He began to struggle again, jerking with a force that shook the bed, hissing at the pain. He didn't hear the car, or the front door, or the approaching footsteps. He was unaware of Bain's return until a shadow fell across him and he looked up into the assassin's face.

Honest to god, I don't know whether I'm glad to see him or scared shitless that he came back.

"Mort." Shaking his head, Bain sat beside him and gently removed the gag. "Be still. You will do yourself harm."

Mort worked his jaw and licked his lips, then tried to speak. "I thought…"

"You thought I was not coming back to you?" Bain looked pleased. "You should know that I would never leave you like this. Never. And I am sorry for taking so long. I became involved in some…interesting conversations with your neighbors." He stroked Mort's cheek. "Very interesting. Would you like to hear the tales they told me?"

The fingers continued to move, sliding down his jaw, beneath his ear, up around the curving earpiece of his glasses, brushing the top of his ear, back down. A part of Mort wanted to cringe away, as frightened by the gentle touches as he would have been by violence...but another part wanted to turn his head into the caress. _Oh shit._ He shuddered.

"I wish you were not so afraid of me. It will make things more difficult later."

_Later._ The fear won. Mort bit the inside of his jaw to keep from whimpering.

"But for now..." He loosened Mort's hands, shaking his head at the marks on the thin wrists. "This must have hurt."

"Yes." Mort rubbed first one wrist, then the other, as Bain untied his feet.

"Come downstairs. I brought in some food, and I bought a bottle of wine. We will talk."

Mort waited until Bain was gone, then sat up and swung his legs to the floor. _Later.__ Oh shit._ He dropped his head into his hands. _I can't._

"Mort?"

He forced himself to his feet and went back downstairs.

The take-out was excellent, the best food Mort had eaten since his last quick trip to New York City, six months before. As they ate, Bain spoke in generalities about the beauty of the lake and the calm outer surface of the town. "This would be a good place to live, if the people were not so hostile to you."

Yes, it was a good place, until Amy and Ted decided to ruin it for me, just like they ruined everything for me.

"Leave the mess. Come." Bain rose, picking up the wine and a pair of glasses, and headed toward the couch. Reluctantly, Mort followed.

"Sit, sit." Bain had made himself comfortable and was uncorking the bottle. "This is one of my favorites." The cork popped free and he sniffed it, then held it out to Mort.

Mort shook his head and sat on the other end of the couch, tucking one leg under the other. Bain poured, handed him a glass, and then raised his own. "To a better future."

_Whatever that means, and I don't think I want to think about what it means._

He nodded and let Bain clink their glasses together, then leaned back.

"Ah. This is good." Bain sipped the wine. "I will not attempt to tell you the names of all the people I spoke with today, but be assured that I will remember them. I told them that you had left—gone to New York—and that I would be living here alone for a time. They all told me how glad they were to see you go. I said I could not understand this, why they would shun a famous author such as yourself. Do you know what they told me?"

"That I killed my wife and her boyfriend." Mort heard the bitterness in his voice. He made a face and took a sip of the wine. _Damn! It **is** good._

"Is it true?"

He's serious. He is seriously asking if I murdered two people. I fucking can't believe it.

"No, it's not true," he snapped. "They ran away together because I was being a butthead and wouldn't sign the divorce papers." He took another swallow of the wine. "They vanished without a trace and left me with everybody thinking I killed them and…I don't know…buried them in the back yard or something."

"Your wife and her...friend. They must be terrible people, to do such a thing to you."

_Terrible?__ Yes. No. Amy wasn't. At least, I don't think she was. Sometimes I wonder if I ever really knew Amy. But Ted… Yeah, he's a terrible person. There's nothing that fucker wouldn't do._

"Tell me about them."

"Why?"

Bain looked surprised. "Because what I know has been learned from newspaper gossip. From the people of the town. I would like to know what really happened. The truth."

_The truth.__ I've **been** telling the truth for over three years now, and look where it's gotten me. The only friend I have in the world is a crazy fan who happens to be an assassin and...Woah. Where did **that** come from? Friend?_

"Mort?"

"All right. You want the truth..." He tossed back the rest of the wine, nodding when Bain leaned forward to refill the glass. "About four years ago, I started thinking that my wife was cheating on me..."

Once he began to talk, he couldn't seem to stop. He told Bain about the terrible night when he had found Amy and Ted in bed at the motel. About the long, empty months afterwards, when he couldn't write one coherent sentence. About the day John Shooter had appeared to wreak havoc in his life. About Amy and Ted vanishing, and the way the town had turned against him. About how long he had been alone and friendless...

Bain listened quietly, his face sympathetic, moving only to be sure Mort's glass stayed full as the hurt and the anger spilled out. And at last Mort was finished. He fell silent, his head drooping, and Bain spoke for the first time.

"Do you think this Shooter might have killed them?" Bain asked quietly.

"I don't know. It was just…one day he was gone and then a few weeks later everybody realized that they were gone. Maybe." He'd considered that possibility, but he'd never admitted it to anyone else. It would've raised even more questions, more suspicions. _No, it's easier just to stick to the party line, even to myself. They went away together, to live happily ever after. The end._

"Did you ever try to find them?"

He shook his head, then grabbed the back of the sofa for support. _Jeez, I'm dizzy. How much wine did I have?_ He looked over at the bottle. The almost empty bottle. _Oh fucking hell._

"Mort?" Bain's voice was very very soft. "You do not have to be alone, you know."

His breath caught in his throat at the expression in the assassin's eyes. _No. No._

"I knew there was fire and passion in you, if only you would release it. Such fire. Such passion." Bain smiled, then leaned forward and lay a hand on Mort's shoulder. "I believe it is time to turn those things from your wife and put them to...better uses."

Bain slanted his face and touched his lips to Mort's, quickly, lightly. "I believe it is time to go upstairs."

No. I can't...you can't... No...


	5. Part 5

Increased warnings in this part, although I believe I've toned it down to an R-rating. Bad language, violence, I-hope-not-too-graphic m/m sex here. Proceed with caution. I'd like to apologize for the delays in updating here. I'm having major problems getting this story to format correctly here. The NC-17 (and correctly formatted) version is on my Live Journal--my username is melodywilde. Just an FYI. These characters do not belong to me, no copyright infringement or anything intended.  
  
Miss Becky beta-read the original on this, but I'm the one responsible for this edited version.

* * *

Secrets

by Melody Wilde

Part 5

"You...you tried to get me drunk." _Not just tried—about halfway succeeded. Oh shit! What was I thinking. Well, that's an easy one. I **wasn't** thinking. I was just ranting on mindlessly to the first person who's ever really listened. _

"No, my friend. Not drunk," Bain corrected gently. "Only a little mellow. Perhaps it was not the best of ideas, but I thought the wine might help you relax. That it might make this a little easier for you when we—"

"No!" Mort was surprised at how firm his voice sounded. "Absolutely not. If you think we're going to... No. I'm not going to let you." He shook off Bain's hand, jerking away, trying to get his feet under him, to stand, to run, to...something.

He didn't see Bain move, but suddenly a gun—_the very big gun, the very dangerous and deadly looking gun_—was pointing at him. He froze.

"Mort." Bain shook his head. He leaned forward again and casually placed the end of the barrel beneath Mort's chin, lifting it upward. "You **are** going to let me. You are going to let me do whatever I want. Anything that I want, and everything that I want."

_He's right. I will. Because I don't want to die. And I don't care what he says about us being buddies or what I was starting to think about him...us...being friends... Right now I believe he **would** kill me, without a second thought. Oh, he might regret it later, but by then it would be a little too late for ol' Mort, wouldn't it?_

"If you cooperate with me—if you do not fight me—I promise that you will enjoy this as much as I do. That before we are through, you will want the same things I do."

_No, I don't think so. Maybe if there had been more time...if this weren't happening so fast and so...stop it! What the hell am I thinking?_

"Before we begin, I am going to explain the rules to you."

Oh great. Rules. I have to remember rules? Shit. I didn't know there were rules for rape. We don't need no stinkin' rules. Oh fuck, why wine? Why didn't he bring in a bottle of Jack Daniels so I could be really drunk instead of just a little tipsy right now? So I could just pass out and wake up when everything's over and...

"Mort!" The gunsight was digging painfully into the bottom of his chin. "It is very important to both of us that you listen to me now. Do not go wandering off in your mind. You must pay attention. Are you listening?"

"Yes," he croaked.

"Good." Bain lowered the gun. "The first rule is this. Do as I tell you. Follow my instructions, whatever I tell you to do. The second rule is: Do not fight me. If you fight me..." He lifted a shoulder. "There is the danger that I may lose control of my temper, and I will not be responsible for what I do then."

He paused. Mort nodded to signify understanding, and he went on. "The next rule is: Do not try to grab this gun. You are not as fast as I am. Believe me. I will get it first, and then we will be back to the hurting."

Bain's free hand came up to skim across along Mort's cheek. He hooked a fingertip under the edge of the wire-rimmed glasses and carefully pulled them off, setting them on the coffee table. When Mort made an involuntary movement, Bain murmured, "You will not need those any more tonight."

No. I guess I won't.

Bain's face was very close to his. "Understand me, Mort Rainey. We **are** going to do this, and we are going to do it now. I would prefer it if you would let me seduce you, so that you can share in the pleasure. But if you do not...it is the same for me. Now stand up."

Between the wine and the fear, he almost couldn't. Bain had to help him, pulling him to his feet and steadying him. "Good, good." Bain tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans and caught Mort's face between his hands. "Open your mouth."

Follow orders, don't fight. Follow orders, don't fight. Follow...

He closed his eyes, let his lips fall open, and waited.

At first, it wasn't so bad. Surprisingly soft lips brushing across his, lifting, coming back from a different direction, a flicker of tonguetip, a warm breath. Just as he was thinking about leaning into the kiss, it changed, losing any hint of gentleness. Bain's mouth took his, hungrily, possessively, tongue and teeth ravishing, devouring, thrusting, nibbling, sucking the life from his body.

_Big Bad Wolf. He's going to swallow me up. I can't breathe...oh god, I can't breathe..._

Bain's attention shifted to the rest of his face, chin, cheeks, eyes, a moist exploration that ended with another assault upon his lips. _Dizzy...so dizzy. Shit._ He was spinning, moving, out of control, going to fall...

He forced his eyes open to see that he **was** moving, that Bain had turned him and was herding him backwards. He hit the wall with a force that drove the remaining breath from his body. _Stop, stop, please...he has to stop sometime, has to let me breathe before I faint again._

Bain's body was molding itself to his, grinding against him, immobilizing him. The gun dug painfully into his belly. _Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? Don't get hysterical, Mort. Be calm. Maybe it won't be so bad...maybe it wouldn't be if I weren't scared shitless. Maybe if I just do what he says and don't fight him, maybe it won't hurt much. Maybe..._

"Have you ever been made love to another man?"

His attention snapped back to the face a heartbeat from his own. "Wh...what?"

"This is an easy question. How do you not understand it?" Bain chuckled. "Have you ever had a homosexual relationship?"

Mort felt as if the blood were rushing to his face in embarrassment, then, just as quickly, flowing away. He shook his head.

Bain nodded and stepped back. "Then I will be the first for you. I will try to be gentle." He waved Mort away from the wall and pointed to the steps. "After you."

He's going to be the first... Don't fight. Don't fight.

He was at the top of the stairs, turning toward the bedroom, moving with feet that felt as if they were trapped in quicksand. Bain guided him inside, and he heard the click of the lock again.

"Good. You are doing well." Bain seated himself on the edge of the bed. "Strip."

Mort started. "What?"

"Strip. Take off your clothing. I want to look at you. I want to touch you."

Strip. Follow orders. He wants to look at me. Do as he tells me. He wants to touch me. Don't fight.

His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely unbutton his shirt. He pulled it off and looked around stupidly for the chair that he normally draped his clothing across at night.

"Put it on the floor."

He dropped the shirt and reached for the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up, over his head, and off. He let that fall to the floor too, then stood there, staring down at the clothing.

Don't think. Go on. You can do it. Just undress. You do it every night. Follow orders. Don't think.

He managed to work loose the heavy button on his jeans and push down the zipper, but then his hands refused to co-operate further. "I can't," he whispered.

"I understand. This is difficult for you. It always is, the first time." Bain rose, circling to stand behind him. "Let me help you."

Bain placed his hands on Mort's waist, slid them forward, teasingly, then tucked them inside the waistband. "It is easy. See?" He began to slide the denim downward, moving with excruciating slowness. When the top of the jeans cleared Mort's hips, Bain's fingers tiptoed sideways. "I want to touch you again, the way I did this morning."

_This morning. Oh there's a memory I don't want to...Ah! Oh jeez, that almost feels good..._

Bain's fingers were gently grasping, tightening ever so slightly, moving. "I would like to see him hard."

_Me too. Anything to please you, but... Oh shit...sorry sorry sorry, it's not going to happen. I've had too much wine and I'm too fucking scared._

Bain was persistent, pushing the shorts down after the jeans, slipping his hands up and down the front of Mort's body, cupping and stroking and kneading and tweaking, as he suckled on the side of Mort's neck. Through it all, Mort's body remained stubbornly unresponsive. _Not even a twitch. Oh god, I hope he doesn't consider this not following orders._

At last Bain released him and stepped away. "All right. It is not to be this time."

This time?

Bain moved across the room, casually shedding his own clothing as he went. "Finish undressing."

Shoes, then the jeans off with the socks. Mort brought his hands forward to cover himself—_a little late with that, aren't we, since he's already seen it all...and **felt** it all_—feeling more naked than he ever had in his life.

"Get on the bed."

_Don't think._ He put one knee on the bed, then lifted the other to join it.

"Please...please don't hurt me...oh god...please..."

Bain turned toward him. The assassin's eyes had gone almost black. "Do I need to bring the gun to bed and hold it against your head while I do this?"

_And have him lose control and his finger tightens on the trigger and...a fate worse than death?...no...there **are** worse things than what he's going to do to me._

"No." Mort closed his eyes and let one hand creep forward to wrap around the metal rail of the headboard, clutching it as if it were a lifeline to sanity. _I've never felt so...so vulnerable...so exposed...in my life. Oh god oh god._

"Now relax."

Mort ducked his head and tried to make everything go away...

Consciousness returned slowly. _I must've passed out. No...I don't want to wake up. Don't make me go back. Please..._

The pain seized him, jerking him awake. He was alone, sprawled face-down on his bed like a broken and discarded toy, hurting in too many ways to count. He moaned, and suddenly Bain was at his side, showered and dressed and glowing with health and happiness.

"That was...beyond words." He tousled Mort's hair. "You are all I imagined in my fantasies, and more."

_Peachy._

"I wish it had been as good for you, my friend. Perhaps next time."

_That "next time" business again. There's not going to be a next time. As soon as I can move, I'm going to...to..._

Bain patted Mort's shoulder. "I think you will probably want to lie here for a while, so I will let you rest."

_Rest. No way. The second you're out that door, I'm going to get up and go throw myself out the window and pray to god that the fall kills me._

He waited until the sound of Bain's footsteps had faded, then flattened his hands against the bed to push himself up. The pain sent him back down immediately. He was disgusted to realize he was crying, the tears slipping down his cheeks. _It's not just the pain. It's... Dammit, I **liked **him. I thought we could be friends...I thought...I might even have...in time. But he **used** me. He hurt me...and there wasn't anything I could do to stop him...and he says he's going to do it again..._

"Looks like you've had yourself a bad day, Mr. Rainey."

He started at the sound of the voice, a voice he recognized even after all this time, a voice he'd recognize anywhere. John Shooter was beside the bed, squatting on his haunches, hat tipped back, shaking his head as his gaze moved down Mort's body.

"How...where did **you** come from?"

"Same place as last time. I ain't moved. You sure are a mess. I bet that hurts like a sumbitch."

"How did you get in?"

"Why, I just walked up the steps and in the front door."

"What...what do you want?"

A slow smile spread across Shooter's face. "To watch. I come here to watch, Mr. Rainey. I come here to watch what he was going to do to you."

"Help me." _I can't believe I'm asking **him** for help. Or how pathetic I sound._

"Now how do you 'spect I could do that? You want me to go kill him like you had me kill your pretty little wife and her boyfriend?"

_What are you talking about? I didn't have you kill them. They're not dead. _

"'Cause I'm afraid I can't do that. I think Mr. Bain would be a mite more trouble than a little gal and a man what's been blindsided by a shovel. Besides, what's in it for me?"

"I'll..." _What? What could I offer him—what does he want?_

Shooter's head moved slowly from side to side. "Nothin', that's what. There ain't nothin' you got to offer me." He rose and touched the brim of his hat with a hand. "Been nice talkin' to you again. You better rest up, now, 'cause he's gonna be back up here pretty soon."

"Don't. Please don't leave me here alone with him."

"I wouldn't be raisin' my voice like that if I was you, Mr. Rainey. 'Less you want him to come up here even quicker."

Mort closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, Shooter was gone.

_I'm hallucinating. Dreaming. He wasn't really here. I'm just...I wonder if I'm dying. Oh god._

Mort put his head back down and clenched his fists and wished he could pass out again.


	6. Part 6

More warnings on this part, although I think I've toned it down to an R-rating. Bad language, violence, I-hope-not-too-graphic m/m sex, general insanity. Proceed with caution.  
I've given up on having this formatted properly here and am going to just forge ahead and post. The original version of the story is on my Live Journal—my username is melodywilde. These characters do not belong to me, no copyright infringement or anything intended.  
Miss Becky beta-read the original on this, but I'm the one responsible for this edited version. Thanks to everyone who's sent reviews, especially the folks who have called me evil! You all make me glad I decided to share this one.

* * *

Secrets

by Melody Wilde

Part 6

_Get a grip, Morty old boy. Enough feeling sorry for yourself. You have to get up now. You have to move. Take care of yourself. Okay, you're hurt, but you're still alive. You'll be okay. You can survive this—people do every day. You just need to get to the shower and wash and find something for the pain and then you'll be good as new. Not that your "new" was all that good..._

On the third attempt, he managed to lift his upper body from the bed and hold himself up with shaking forearms. _Good enough. Close enough for government work. I am **not **going to try to sit up and put any weight on...no, don't think about it._

He edged sideways, letting one knee drop from the bed to the floor. It hit hard, jarring him, sending him flat again and forcing him to cling desperately to the ruined bedspread until the lights dancing in front of his eyes had cleared.

_Little setback there, but it's okay._

He wrapped his hands around the bars of the headboard and pulled himself forward until his leg straightened, then pushed upward again. _Don't think. Just do it. And don't throw up on yourself. Take deep breaths. It's going to be okay. Okay, okay, okay._

He found himself standing, head down, hair falling across his face, legs spread apart for support, panting as if he'd run a marathon.

_Take that first step now. You can do it. Think how good that shower's going to feel, that nice warm water, remember how good it felt this morning...this morning...shit, was it only this morning that I stood in the shower jerking off? Seems like it was a fucking lifetime ago. Before I got fucked._

He giggled. _Uh oh. Not good. No giggling...giggling sounds crazy. Get a grip, hang on, just start moving, you can do it._

When he took the first step, all desire to giggle fled. He clenched his teeth against the other sorts of sounds that began trying to claw their way out of his chest, then lurched toward the bathroom. _Shower. I'll shower. Feel better afterwards..._

He shoved the bathroom door closed behind him and turned the lock, then leaned back against it. His eyes strayed to the bathroom mirror, and the creature staring back at him—white-faced, eyes huge and dark and empty—made him catch his breath. _Jesus, I look like a ghoul._ He forced himself to look away and take the last steps to the shower.

He groaned with pleasure as the water began to gush down on him, warm, cleansing, soothing. _I could stand here for...for a very long time._ He retrieved the soap, lathered his hands, and ran them slowly, carefully, across the front of his body.

"Mort? Mort, are you in there?"

The voice startled him. He choked on a whimper. _Bain. He must've heard the water running. Maybe if I'm quiet, he'll go away and at least let me finish up here._

"Mort?" The tone was harsher now. "Answer me. Are you in there?"

_What the fuck do you think—where else would I be? No, no, no. Not good. Do what he says._

"Mort." It was definitely a threat now, one he recognized even in his current not-quite-all-with-it state. "Open the door."

"I...just a minute..."

"I said open the door! Now!"

_Oh...shit..._

There was a crash, the splintering of wood, and then the shower door was flung back hard enough to make it jump its track. Bain was staring in at him, face was tight with fury.

"I told you to open the door," he snapped in a voice cold as death. "Why did you lock it? Did you try to lock me out?"

"I...I..." Mort's throat closed with terror.

"You tried to lock me out."

"No. Please..."

Bain was moving, in the shower, crowding him, a hand knotting in his hair, holding him, the other hand fisting, beginning to pound into his body. Mort's knees unlocked, his legs buckling.

"Why did you lock me out?" Bain slammed a forearm against Mort's neck, keeping him upright, choking him. "I. Warned. You." Bain punctuated each word with a blow. Arm. Chest. Stomach. "I. Warned. You. But. You. Did. Not. Listen."

_I did! I swear to god I did! I just..._

Breathing heavily, Bain shifted, moving his arm, pressing his hands against Mort's shoulders. "You must listen to me, Mort Rainey. You must do as I say. I do not like this loss of control that makes me do things like this."

_Yeah...funny thing...me neither._

"Perhaps now you will remember that you must listen to what I say."

Bain spun and stepped out of the shower. Mort heard his footsteps crossing the bedroom, going down the stairs. _Trailing water all the way. I hope he doesn't expect me to mop it up, because I think I'm going to..._

Everything gave way. Mort slid bonelessly to the bottom of the tub, cracking his head against the metal and plexiglass of the door as he went down. He lay in a crumpled heap where he had fallen, motionless except for the sobs that jarred his chest, feeling the water that gushed down from the showerhead turn from a gentle warmth to icy cold.

His stomach heaved, emptying itself, heaved again. He began to shudder with the cold and the sickness and the pain. He thought he heard Shooter's voice—"I sure did get a kick outta seein' that, Mr. Rainey"—and a dry laugh, but it flowed over him like the water, meaningless.

Finally, his mind let go and slipped away.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Someone was swearing loudly in Spanish. The sound and feel of the water cut off abruptly. A hand was touching his back, the side of his head.

"Mort? Mort!"

_Sorry. Nobody here by that name._

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Hands covered in terrycloth were moving gently but firmly over his body, drying, trying to rub back warmth and life. There was more Spanish, soft this time.

_Sounds like some sort of prayer. Calling on God and Jesus and Mary and all those guys._

"Mort? Speak to me, please."

_Nope. Talk to your holy folks. I'm not home._

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

_Warm. Warm warm warm. Feels good. So good. I was so fucking cold. All wrapped up. Soft...must be in bed. Warm._

"I need you to open your mouth and swallow this pill. Can you do this thing for me?"

_Nope._

"Mort, open your mouth!"

He flinched. _Follow orders, don't fight._ But the last time he had opened his mouth for this voice, it had led to kissing, which had been nice at first, and then to pain, which hadn't. _So much pain. I don't want to remember it._

"Please? Oh please."

_Is he crying? It sounds like he's crying. No, wrong, not him. I was the one crying like a baby._

"Please, Mort. Please."

_Why not?_ Without opening his eyes, he let his lips part.

"_Gracias, gracias_." Fingers were touching his mouth, slipping a pill inside. A hand went beneath his head, raising it, and the round plastic of a straw was tucked between his lips. Instinctively, he sucked in the water, washing the pill down.

_Wonder what it was. Something to kill me?_

His head was settled back on the pillow, and he thought he felt a soft kiss on his forehead.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

_Cold again, so so cold. What happened to the warm?_

He could feel the weight of the covers tucked about him, but they were useless against the violence of his shivering. He whimpered, and the gentle hands were back, pressing against his forehead, holding the straw to his lips, stroking his hair. He tried to open his eyes, to see the angel who was touching him with such care, but they remained stubbornly glued shut.

_I'm so cold._

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"_You don't look so good, Mr. Rainey."_

_He was outside the cabin, beside the cornfield. It was dark, with only the vaguest illumination from the stars reflecting on the piles of newly fallen snow. It was freezing, and he'd stupidly come out dressed only in his t-shirt and cut-off jeans. He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth and turned to face Shooter._

"_What the fuck do you want now?"_

"_Why, I told you. I come to watch. I come to see you get what you deserved for the things you made me do."_

"_What things? What are you talking about?"_

"_You know what things. You jist don't want to **let** yourself know."_

"_You're crazy. You're fucking crazy." He began to edge away, to get inside and slam the door. But the cabin seemed to be moving, avoiding him, shifting from side to side, always out of reach._

"_You been havin' a lot of trouble gettin' away from things lately, ain't you?"_

_Mort whirled and began to shove his way through the corn stalks, stalks that were still impossibly high despite the snow. And suddenly the small cornfield itself was huge. There was no end to it, no end, no escape._

"_Why, Mort?"_

"_Amy!" She had appeared from between two rows, hands outstretched in supplication. "Oh god, Amy!"_

_He started toward her, but she shook her head, warning him away. "Why? Why did you make him do it?"_

"_Do **what**? Amy..."_

_He screamed as arms grabbed his from behind. He snapped his head to the side, and saw that he was being held by Ted Milner._

"_Hey, Morty, old boy. How's it going these days? Not so good, huh?"_

"_Not good at all." Shooter came sauntering through the corn, nodding a greeting to the others. "You c'n let him go now."_

"_What's going on here?" Freed, Mort began to move again...only to take two steps and find himself with his back pressed against the wall of the cabin. _

"_I enjoyed watchin' so much that now I'm thinkin' I might like to get me a piece of that action." He waved a hand at Ted, then Amy. "Might let **them** enjoy watchin'." _

"_Not you too. You can't..."_

"_Oh I can. And I am gonna enjoy this. I purely am."_

"_No. This is a dream. You're not real."_

_Shooter laughed and grabbed him. "I never was, Mr. Rainey. I never was." Then Shooter was shoving him to the ground and Ted and Amy were laughing and Shooter was..._

Mort flung his arms upward and began to shriek with terror.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

_I'm wet._

He managed to force one eye to open just enough to see where he was. _Bathtub. I'm lying in the bathtub. I thought I was in bed. I thought...where are the shower doors? Who took them off?_

There was a slight movement to one side and Bain leaned into view. Mort quickly let the eyelid close again, before Bain could see that he was awake. _Am I? I think so._

"There, my friend. This is good." Bain's fingers brushed across his forehead. "Your fever has broken. So good. So good."

_Friend? When did I go from fucktoy back to being his friend?_

He risked opening the eye again, just enough to peer from beneath the lashes. Bain was draining the water, then bending over him with a towel, drying him, touching his battered body with an astonishing gentleness. _What's going on here?_

Bain slid his arms beneath Mort's shoulders and knees, lifting him easily and cradling him like a child. _Or a lover._ Despite Bain's care, there was still pain. _A lot of pain. And he caused it. Don't forget that._

A moan escaped from his lips, and Bain froze. "Mort? Are you awake?"

_No. Not yet. Not yet._

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Awareness came back in small bits of feeling. Warmth. A body cuddled against his. An arm circling him protectively. A shoulder pillowing his head. Soft, even breathing.

_No pain. I'm not hurting anywhere._

He sighed with relief, and the breathing changed to that of someone awake and alert, although the body beside him remained relaxed. A whisper. "Mort?"

_It's Bain. Bain. Holding me like a lover, like he held me when...when? How long ago was that? How long have I been...not here?_

"I know you're awake." Bain's voice was soft, barely audible. "You don't have to talk to me. I do not blame you. I have behaved...there are no words to describe the way I have behaved. I allowed the evil part of myself to take control of me, to hurt you, to take by force what I wanted to win with gentleness. And then, to make matters worse, I beat you."

Mort shuddered involuntarily.

"Mort?"

"Just..." His voice sounded rough, as if unused for a time. _Or raw from screaming. No, let's not go there._ "Don't...don't talk about..."

"All right." Bain moved ever so slightly. "May I do this? Tell me if you want me to stop." Bain's hand lifted, then began to slide comfortingly down the back of Mort's head, smoothing down, lifting, down again, lifting, a gentle, ceaseless caress.

Mort felt the tension begin to ease out of his body—tension he hadn't even been aware of. _He seems okay enough now. Like he was...before. He was... I liked him. A lot. I still could if he hadn't...if I thought he wouldn't..._

He drifted away once more.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He was alone in the bed the next time he woke, wrapped in a cocoon of pillows and blankets. _Snug as a bug in a rug._ He slitted open an eye to peer around the room. Bain was sprawled half in and half out of Chico's chair, which had been pulled in beside the bed at some time during the past few..._what? hours? days? weeks?_ Bain's head was tilted against the back of the chair, his jaw-stubble suggesting "days." Even in sleep, Bain looked as exhausted as Mort felt.

_I've been...sick. And he took care of me. I remember..._

He shoved the memories of warm soup and cool cloths and light, loving touches away. _Okay, he took care of me, but it was his fault that I **needed** to be taken care of. And what now? What happens when he wakes up? Will he still take care of me? Be good to me? Be my friend? Or is he going to... _

"You're awake."

Bain was shifting in the chair, straightening, moving slowly, as if he didn't want to frighten Mort. _I guess it's too late to pretend I'm not._ He nodded.

"How do you feel?"

_Confused. Scared. Sick to my stomach._

"Can I get something for you? Tea? Water? Something to eat?"

"Mountain Dew."

"It is done."

He tried to sit up while Bain was gone, but the effort was too much. The best he could do was free an arm from the covers and roll onto his back. _Still hurts, there, there, there. Better, though. Just...so fucking weak._

"Here." Bain was back, holding a glass filled with crushed ice and soda. "Let me help you." He seated himself carefully on the edge of the bed and slipped an arm beneath Mort's shoulders, lifting to allow Mort to sip at the liquid.

_Tastes good._

"A little more?" Bain tilted the glass again, but Mort shook his head, refusing. "Is there anything else?"

"Tell me why."

Bain froze. "Why I hurt you."

"Yes."

"Ah." Bain eased Mort back onto the pillows and set the drink aside. "That is very difficult to explain, my friend. Even with all your imagination, I do not think you could understand what it is like to be..." He gestured helplessly. "Possessed by someone else inside your head."

"Try me."

The words startled Mort almost as much as they did Bain. _Where the fuck did **that** come from? Did I just offer him a chance to **explain**? Explain why he held me prisoner and tied me up and raped me and beat me and...Jesus, he almost killed me!_

"Oh he's right, Mr. Rainey. You couldn't never understand a thing like that, now could you?"

Mort's head jerked sideways. Shooter was standing by the bed again, looking down at him with an amused smile on his face. "No, sir, you wouldn't know nothin' 'bout havin' an evil somebody inside your head takin' over and doin' all your dirty work for you."

Mort flinched, involuntarily pressing his body closer to Bain's for protection. "No."

Bain glanced quickly over his shoulder, then back. "What is it? What is wrong?"

"Don't you see...?" Mort looked up at Bain, then back at Shooter.

"See what? Tell me."

_Bain doesn't see him. He fucking **doesn't see him**! Just like Tom Greenleaf didn't see him, that day on the road._

The memory of the nightmare came back. _"You're not real." "I never was, Mr. Rainey. I never was."_

"Now you're beginnin' to catch on." Shooter nodded and touched the brim of his hat. "Looks like I'm done here for now. I'd best be gettin' on back."

_Gone. He's just...gone. Vanished into thin air. How..._

"Mort?"

_Bain didn't see him. He **isn't** real. But...if he isn't real...that means.... _

"Mort?"

_That means there isn't a John Shooter. It means **I **killed Ken and Tom. It means...it means that maybe Dave Newsome was right about me all along. Maybe Amy and Ted **are** dead. Maybe I **did** kill them. Maybe I'm a murderer, just like Bain. Maybe..._

He began to giggle.

_Maybe I'm crazy too._


	7. Part 7

Same disclaimers. At various times along the way, this story contains bad language, violence, and m/m sex, not all of it consensual. If these things bother you, get out now. The NC-17 (and properly formatted) version of this story is on my Live Journal, username melodywilde.  
These guys don't belong to me. Just borrowing them for a while yadda yadda yadda.  
Many thanks to Miss Becky, beta reader and chief source of encouragement. And thanks to all you folks who are reading this, and especially the ones who are commenting!

* * *

Secrets

by Melody Wilde

Part 7

"Mort? Mort!"

I'm crazy. I really **am** crazy. I remember it all now. Oh god, I remember everything. I **did** kill Amy and Ted, just like Dave said I did, killed them with a shovel and then used that very same shovel to bury them in the garden and planted corn over their graves and smiled while I ate it. It was me. I did it all on my own. Not Shooter—me. There is no Shooter. Just crazy ol' Mort Rainey.

"Talk to me. Please?"

Oh and I forgot...well of course I forgot, that's the whole point, isn't it. What about Tom Greenleaf and Ken Karsch and, last but not least, poor old Chico. Pain in the ass blind bastard piddling on the front porch Chico. I killed them too—killed them all. Shovel, hatchet, screwdriver, whatever it took. And I don't even know **why** I killed them.

And now we have to ask the musical question...how did I do something like that and not remember it? How did I get so fucked up that I forgot—**forgot**—murdering four people?

"Mort, tell me what is wrong."

Wrong? Why nothing's wrong. Nothing at all. I've just realized I'm a murderer and I'm bugfuck crazy, but other than that life is peachy keen. Couldn't be better.

"Is it...the things that I did to you?"

That made him laugh even harder. Ah Miguelito, my friend, that's nothing. Not compared to multiple murders. Shooter was right. I deserved what you did to me. Deserved worse. Only...oops...Shooter's not real. But it doesn't matter. He was right anyway.

The small part of his mind that was still rational was aware that his laughter was spiraling upward, becoming more and more out of control, but he was powerless to stop it. Uh oh, getting hysterical here, folks. Step right up, come one, come all. Free admission. The mind is snapping—watch it go! Watch the famous writer turn into one of his own characters!

"Mort, you need to swallow this."

Somehow Bain had managed to drag his arms above his head and tie his wrists to the metal railings of the headboard, immobilizing him. To keep me from hurting myself? Or maybe for something else, hmmm? Maybe he's been thinking about it and decided he wants another round. Another roll in the hay with crazy ol' Mort. Careful. Insanity may be contagious. He twisted, trying to free himself, and giggled some more. Go ahead. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Let him fuck me again. This is just a little bitty preview of what's to come. Jailhouse rock. After what I did, they'll put me away for...oh...about a zillion years. I'll wind up in a cell with some guy named Big Tiny, being his bitch until he gets tired of me and sells me for a pack of cigarettes. Oh, Miguel, I'll be thinking back on what you did to me as one of the best times of my life.

Something was being forced between his lips and he tasted the chalky texture of a pill. More drugs. No. Not going to do it this time, not taking your drugs, not going to let you drug me again. I'm going to fight you. Why not? For all I know, **you're** not real. Maybe I just imagined you too, imagined all this. I don't know why I'd imagine somebody who'd hurt me as much as you did, but hey...nothing else is making sense right now. Maybe you're just my subconscious punishing me for killing...killing...oh my fucking god...I killed Amy...

His mouth was full of water and hands were on his face, one holding his nostrils shut, the other covering his mouth. He fought, but he'd been too sick...still too weak...and it hurts...and I can't breathe...have to swallow...oh fuck...

"Good, good."

The hands released his face and he sucked in a great gulp of air, only to release it in another burst of laughter.

"Shhh, be calm now."

"Don't...don't you see..." His eyes wouldn't quite focus on the man kneeling beside him, trying to soothe him. "Oh...I forgot...you **didn't** see..." That sent him off into more giggles.

"See what, my friend?"

"Shooter. You didn't see him. Because he wasn't real...he isn't real...he's never been real. It was all...it was..."

Whatever drug Bain had forced down his throat began to kick in at that moment, and the hint of his sanity that remained gave a groan of relief. Fast acting. Thank god. Get me out of here. Calgon, take me away...

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He remembered it all. He remembered **everything**.

The satisfying crunch of the shovel against Ted's face. The shock of the impact running up the handle. The distant sound of Amy's weeping as he shifted his weight and tightened his grip, lifted, brought the shovel down hard, right on target, then again.

Amy's voice at his feet, trying to tell him he was Mort Rainey, when he knew better. Mort Rainey was dead, as dead as Ted Milner, just not as messy a corpse. More work for the shovel, and then more, out beneath the secret window, out in what would become his cornfield.

Mort huddled in the center of the room, arms wrapped around his bowed head, as if that would keep away the terrible images that were flooding back. Ted, his head almost severed from his body. Amy, his pretty little wife, only not any more, blood bright on her golden hair and golden skin. Tom, who never hurt a soul in his life, staring sightlessly ahead with a screwdriver jammed into his temple. Ken, sprawled in the back seat, covered with blood. Chico...

No. He couldn't remember killing Chico, only the sight of the dog's lifeless body—the rage he'd felt at the senselessness of the act. Chico's death was somehow worse than all the others. He was just an innocent animal, whose only crime had been that Amy still loved him when she didn't love Mort anymore.

"It's all comin' back now, ain't it, Mr. Rainey?" Shooter leaned against the wall in front of him, cigarette dangling from his fingers, nodding. "You like what you're seein'?"

"I thought you were gone. Through with me." The smug look on the man's face gave him courage, strength. He lowered his arms, began to uncurl his body. "Haven't you done enough? What else do you want?"

"Why, I want to watch you remember. And I want to watch you pay and know what you're payin' for this time." He took a deep drag of the cigarette, let the smoke trickle out his nose. "It was fun seein' Bain have you, but I think this is gonna be more fun."

"What are you talking about?" Mort was on his feet now, fists clenched.

"What do you think, Morty-boy?"

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he spun to look into the grinning face of his rival, his victim, Ted Milner. The fingers tightened with an unnatural strength, and he cried out.

"Retribution. Revenge. Payback." Ken was behind him, close, too close. "I took care of you, Mort. I saved your butt when you got involved with that crazy fan. I was trying to save you this time. You might've had a beef with Milner here, but why the hell did you kill **me**?"

"Because...because...I don't know...I don't remember why..."

"You'd better start thinking, babe." Amy, to his left, her gentle eyes hard, mouth compressed in an angry line.

"Amy, I..." He was starting to feel tendrils of panic gripping his stomach, spreading through his body, even before Tom Greenleaf appeared, bloody screwdriver clutched in his hand.

"I thought we were friends," he said accusingly. "I didn't have anything to do with any of this mess. I was just driving by. You didn't have any reason to kill me. Do you know what it feels like to have somebody shove a screwdriver into your head?"

"Tom..."

"It feels like **this**."

Tom's arm flashed up. The others crowded him, keeping him from moving as the metal drove through his temple, through flesh and bone and into his brain. He screamed with the pain. It should've killed him—killed him instantly—but it didn't. It just hurt...and hurt...and hurt...

They all stepped back and let him fall. He hit the floor hard, jarring his head. He opened his mouth to scream again then realized he'd never stopped. The sounds coming from him were inhuman, a wail that rose and fell and paused only when he had to suck in more air.

"Mort. This too."

He saw the hatchet coming down, felt it slice into his chest, ripping him open. He'd thought nothing could hurt worse, but this did. He'd thought he couldn't scream any louder, but he did. There was blood everywhere, splattering over the floor, staining the shoes of the specters surrounding him, covering his clothing.

Oh god, why can't I die?

He didn't realize he'd spoken the words—or maybe he hadn't—but Ted leaned forward, a shovel in his hand. "Because we're not through with you. This is all the satisfaction we'll ever have from you, and we're going to take every fucking minute of it, asshole."

The shovel-end against his face should've knocked him unconscious with the first strike, but he knew better than to expect that now. His head jerked back and forth with the force of the blows. He couldn't even pass out. He wasn't surprised to look up and see that Amy had taken over shovel duty, wielding the weapon with as much force as her lover.

"I think that's about enough."

They moved back to allow Shooter to join their circle, awarding him a place of honor. Shooter looked down at him and shook his head. "You purely **are** a mess now, Mr. Rainey. Even worse than when your friend got done with you."

"You're not real...this isn't real...leave me alone..." Mort tried to roll away from them, but Shooter stopped him, nudging the toe of his boot against Mort's ribs.

"I think we c'n do just that."

The pain and the wetness of blood on his clothing were gone. He was in another room, a small room with padding on the walls and a door with a tiny barred window on one side. "Oh shit," he murmured. "I'm in a nuthouse."

"Well, where else would they put a crazy man?"

He could hear Shooter's voice, but not see the man. "Shooter! Shooter, you son of a bitch! Get me out of here!"

"Oh, I don't think so. Not just yet."

Mort heard the sound of a key turning, and the door opened to admit two burly men in white uniforms. The one in front glanced back at the other. "He's yelling for 'Shooter' again."

The second one shut the door, then pulled a partition across the window. "You know, I read every one of his books. It's a shame to see him like this."

"Yeah. Bad for him. Good for us."

Mort began to back away. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing new, Mort." He advanced, hands outstretched. "You know the drill. Don't fight us now."

The second man was unbuttoning his pants. Mort's eyes went wide. "What do you think you're doing?" But he **knew** the answer. "You can't... I'll scream."

He tried to dodge, but the room was too small. He was shoved against a wall, immobilized by the man's superior strength, then wrestled to the floor.

"You go right ahead. Everybody screams here. And you know how Jim likes it when you scream for him."

He struggled helplessly. "I'll tell somebody," he panted. "They'll..."

"Don't you get tired of going through this every time? You always tell. And they never believe you. After all, who are they going to believe—a nutcase who killed four people or his good and kind male nurses?"

In the endless time that followed, Mort could barely hear his own cries over **their** laughter—Shooter, Ted, Ken, Tom...even Amy. Even Amy.

He had no idea how long he lay there afterward before he heard the footsteps and saw the ends of Shooter's boots stop before his face.

"How you likin' your little visit to the nuthouse, Mr. Rainey?"

"I'm having a nightmare. It isn't like this. They don't...it couldn't happen. This isn't real."

"Maybe it ain't no more real than I was, but it still hurts, don't it?"

Mort refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

"'Course, maybe you won't wind up in a nice place like this. Maybe they'll send you straight to jail."

A dizzying sensation of falling, and then he was in yet another room, this one tiled and antiseptic, showerheads pouring steaming clouds of water down on the occupants. They were standing in a half-circle, staring at him. And he was naked.

"Shooter, you bastard..."

With a laugh, Shooter dragged him to his feet and pushed him forward into the waiting crowd.

They grabbed him, spinning him from man to man, touching, groping, calling promises of the things they were going to do to him. He tried to fight, but there were so many of them. Too many.

"Let him go."

The words were spoken quietly, but they cut through the jeers and the threats, silencing them. The man holding Mort released him, letting him drop to the floor.

"Now leave."

Mort forced his head up, squinting to try to learn the identity of his rescuer, but there were bodies in the way. He couldn't see.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, telling us what to do?" One of the men broke away from the group and strode forward. "What..."

A flurry of movement. A sharp sound like a twig snapping, then an unearthly shriek of pain. The other prisoners began to shift, retreating, as Mort's savior advanced upon them, dark, deadly, eyes blazing.

"Bain." His mind struggled to process Bain's presence in this hellish nightmare. "What..."

"Be still, Mort Rainey. I will take care of you." Bain was standing over him, protecting him, fists clenched, head turning to glare at each man in turn. They began to fade away, one by one, until only a man in dark clothing and a wide-brimmed hat was left.

"Well, now, this is a turn I surely didn't 'spect," Shooter drawled.

"You will leave him alone now. He belongs to me."

Shooter nodded slowly. "If'n you say so, Mr. Bain. You c'n have him for now. But we ain't done with this yet. Not by a long shot." He touched the brim of his hat. "No sirree, not by a long shot."

Bain took a step toward Shooter...and then they were both gone.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Mort's eyes snapped open. He was in bed, curled around a pillow that was damp beneath his cheek, as if he'd been crying. It was dark. And he was alone.

He lay very still, not daring to move. I'm safe. No Shooter. There's nobody else here.

Panic was rising from his stomach, a scream trembling on his lips. There's nobody else here. Where's Bain? Did he leave...or did I dream him too? Did I dream everything? What's happening to me? Is this real or just more of the dream? Is anything real? Oh god...

He closed his eyes tightly and hugged the pillow and began to sob with fear.


	8. Part 8

Author's Rant...uh...Notes: I'd just like to ask somebody, "Where are my italics?" Not a single one (that I saw) survived in Part 7, and I know they were there in the original. Oh well. I'm posting two parts today in an attempt to catch up with where I am on my Live Journal, just so I can keep things straight in my feeble little brain. And then there will be a short break everywhere, while I go edit the next parts and get them ready to go.  
Remember this, if you're enjoying this at all: This story is not over until you read the words "The End". Keep it in mind... The Continuing Saga of Mort and Bain contains bad language, violence, and m/m sex, not all of it consensual. If these things bother you, hit the exit button. (I figure anybody who's still with me knows all this already.) The NC-17 version of this story (which has italics!) is on my Live Journal, username melodywilde.  
If these two belonged to me, a lot of unpleasantness would've been avoided, but they don't. They only talk to me. (Scary, eh?, that two crazy men are talking to me?)  
Love and hugs to Miss Becky for the betas, for calling me evil several times, and for pushing me along.

* * *

Secrets

by Melody Wilde

Part 8

"Bain?"

Mort hesitated at the top of the stairs, peering nearsightedly down into the darkness below. He'd forced himself to crawl out of bed when he couldn't ignore Nature's Call any longer. He'd been encouraged by the aches that walking into the bathroom had roused—and oh boy, how far gone are we when hurting like this is a good thing—and by the livid bruises he'd seen on his body when he'd finished and had looked at himself in the mirror.

Bain did that. Those bruises are real. The pain's real. So maybe I'm not totally crazy. Oh wait, not so fast there, pilgrim. We saw bruises on our arms after Shooter grabbed us, didn't we, only we know Shooter's not real, so a few bruises don't prove anything. Maybe the pain doesn't prove anything either, no matter how much it hurts.

He cleared his throat and tried again, his voice wavering. "Bain? Are you down there?"

No answer.

He was shaking so hard he was almost afraid to start down the steps, afraid his legs would give out and he'd fall and break his neck. Maybe I should just go back to bed and wait. See what happens...or doesn't. No, no, not good. I need to know, one way or the other. Come on now, easy does it, hug the wall, one step at a time, we can do it, he's probably asleep on the couch and didn't hear me.

The couch was empty.

He took a deep breath, then shuffled toward the kitchen. Okay, okay, let's keep calm. No need to get upset.

Empty. The countertops were clean, the dishes put away, the table bare, everything neatly in place.

"Bain?"

He circled, glancing into the half-bath, then opening the door to look out onto the closed-in porch, even though by then he knew it was pointless. He's not here. If Bain were anywhere in the house...assuming Bain even exists...he would've heard me. He would've been here. He wouldn't have left me alone. He would've...

Mort dropped onto the end of the couch, overwhelmed with an exhaustion that was more than physical. All right. For whatever reason, he's not here. It's just me and me. And I think it's time for us to face some facts. Only I wish to hell I knew for sure what **is **a fact and what's just...just...

The tears were starting again, leaking slow trails down his cheeks. Amy and Ted are dead. That's a fact. I've made myself believe they weren't, because thinking they were dead meant I'd have to wonder who killed them. But now I know. **I** killed them. I can...I can see their faces. What was left of Ted's face when I was finished. I remember Amy trying to stop me, trying to make me realize what I was doing. But by then it was too late. Way way too late.

He pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and rested his head against his knees. Pieces of his dream—his nightmare—were coming back. His victims, circling him. Their accusations, their anger, their questions. They were right. Okay, maybe I had a reason with Amy and Ted, but.... Why the hell did I kill Tom and Ken? They didn't do anything to me. They didn't deserve what I did to them. It was just me being...

Crazy.

This time, the word didn't make him feel like laughing. And what now, now that I know the truth? Turn myself in? Go knocking on the sheriff's door and tell him that good old Dave was right about me all along? And then where will I end up? Innocent by reason of insanity, locked away in a nuthouse for the rest of my life? Guilty—guilty as hell, your honor—shut up in prison for the rest of my life with men who are just going to love getting hold of a famous writer and...

He couldn't complete the thought. The idea of being the star of either of Shooter's scenarios was unbearable. His stomach twisted. Unbearable. Unthinkable. But so is what I did. I killed them. Killed them killed them killed them. And now I'm going to have to pay, one way or the other. I **deserve** to pay.

His body began to rock from side to side. He ground his forehead against his knees, trying to drive away the images that paraded before him. All these months—years—I've lived here alone, but I've never felt as alone as I do right now, right this minute. I can't stand it. I can't stand it. I can't stand it. He heard himself whimpering again. I'd rather be dead than...

Something went still inside him.

I'd rather be dead.

A strange, unnatural calm swept over him. Yes. Well, yes, why not? They are; why shouldn't I be too? Why **not** end it all, take care of it myself instead of letting the state decide if I should go to jail or a funny farm. It shouldn't be a problem. I've already killed four people. What's one more?

The corners of his mouth curved slightly upward. It wouldn't be so hard to do. Run the tub full of warm water. Have a few drinks to dull the pain. Then get in and cut my wrists open and lie there and bleed to death. It wouldn't be so bad. It wouldn't be nearly as bad as my other options. I wouldn't suffer as much as they did. A little blood, a little pain, then game over, kids. End of the line for...

"Mort!"

The slam of a door. Light, quick footsteps. A hand on his back. I'm not going to look up. Not going to look at him. He wasn't here. He isn't here now. He's not real. My mind just conjured him up to keep me from killing myself. It won't work. It won't stop me. It won't.

"Christ, you're freezing."

Clatter of shoes on the stairs, up, back down. Something warm—the quilt from the bed—wrapped around his trembling body. Gentle hands straightening him, settling him back so he could be more securely tucked in. He resolutely kept his head bowed, refusing to look up.

"I am sorry, my friend. I thought you would sleep for a while longer. I should not have gone out and left you alone."

"Where..." No. Wrong. Don't ask. Don't talk to him. He isn't real. I'm not going to pretend he is.

"I walked down to the lake. I needed to get some fresh air and think about...things. I thought you would be all right without me there."

"You're not real." I didn't mean to say that. I didn't mean to talk to him.

"What?"

The surprise in Bain's voice made him open his eyes and, finally, look at the other man. "You're not real," he repeated. He sure looks real, though, doesn't he?

Bain's head tilted to one side, his eyebrows rising. "Oh? What makes you think this thing?"

Oh shit. He's acting real too. And this quilt feels real—I know I didn't bring it down with me. But...

Mort shivered. "Shooter...he isn't real."

"The man who accused you of stealing his story."

"He was...he was standing by the bed. Laughing at me. But you didn't see him. And then I knew...I knew..." Deep breaths here. Don't go hysterical again.

"You knew he was not real." Bain insinuated himself onto the couch, lifting Mort's legs across his lap. "Because I did not see him."

"Yes."

"But..." Bain's eyebrows came together, as if he were in deep thought. He moved slightly closer, snuggling against Mort. "Does this hurt?"

It did, but only a little, where Bain's hipbone was pressing against a tender spot. More than the hurting was... It feels good. Warm. Real. He feels real. But he always **felt** real, especially when he was...

"Mort?" Bain's voice, calling him back. "Does this hurt?"

"No."

"All right then. Let us analyze this. You believe that Shooter is not real because I did not see him by your bed. But if I, also, am not real, I **would** have seen him, would I not? Two not-real people would see each other."

"Yes. No. I mean..."

"This is not making much sense, my friend." Bain looked as if he were on the verge of smiling.

"Why should it make sense," Mort whispered tiredly. He pulled a hand from beneath the quilt and ran it through his hair. "Nothing makes sense anymore." Nothing but the idea of dying. That makes a lot of sense. "I'm not sure why I'm talking to you anyway. I'm probably asleep on the couch having a dream within a dream within a dream within a..."

"Shhh." Bain leaned forward to lay a finger across Mort's lips to stop him. "You have had so many very bad things happen to you, Mort Rainey, and I am more sorry than I can say to know that I am responsible for some of them. You have been so hurt. By your wife. By Shooter. By the people of this town and the sheriff who should have protected you. And then..."

Somehow, Bain managed to move even closer. "And then I came along, with my fondness for you and my lust for you. But instead of caring for you and helping you, as I meant to do, I hurt you too. Hurt you so badly, in so many ways. It is no wonder that you are in this state, unsure of what is real and what is not. You are tired. Hurting. Confused."

Three for three. And you know what. It doesn't matter. I just want it all to go away. **I** want to go away.

"What are you thinking, Mort Rainey?"

"That I want to die."

"No!" Bain's hand slid down to circle his wrist, but the grasp was gentle, not restrictive. "Oh Mort..." There were depths of sorrow in Bain's voice. "You must not feel this way. You must not die. You are too important."

Important? To who? To **whom**? His agent, undoubtedly, oh yeah, he loves that money rolling in. His fans, maybe, but only a maybe, and some of them were even crazier than he was. But nobody **here**. Nobody real. Nobody he could touch. Nobody who would hold him and love him and tell him it was going to be all right. There wasn't anybody like that, not anymore, not in years. Not since Amy took up with Ted and...

"Mort." Bain's eyes had gone as soft as his voice. His fingertips began to work gently against the soft inner flesh of Mort's wrist. Mort caught his breath.

"What?"

"I am thinking..." Bain lifted the hand to his cheek, brushed his lips across the knuckles. "I would like to show you how sorry I am for what I did. I would like to show you that you **are **important—so important. To me. Would you allow me to pleasure you?"

What? Pleasure me? What is he talking about? Oh shit, he isn't going to...

Mort's expression must've conveyed his sudden anxiety for Bain shook his head quickly. "No, no. Not like that. Not the hurting. I do not want to take from you tonight. Instead, I would like to give to you, give you pleasure. I would like to touch you. I would like to make you tremble with desire, not with fear or pain."

"You want to..." I can't believe this. I fucking can not believe this. This isn't real. Well, yes, that's one of the issues here, isn't it, whether or not he's real, what's real and what isn't. And does it matter? Little Mort doesn't care, and damn, has he ever perked up. He shifted slightly, the sudden pressure making his position uncomfortable, and Bain smiled.

"You want this, yes?"

Yes. No. No! What am I thinking? I don't want to hand over my body to him again, do I? Let him do things to me again? Do I?

"May I do this for you? Please?"

I don't want to...to...oh hell... I do. I want to be touched. I want to **feel** loved, even if it's not really love. Even if it's him. Even if I'm taking a chance that he'll forget himself and...

"Please?"

Mort swallowed hard, then nodded.

"Ah. Good. Good." Bain eased him backward so that he was lying down, his head resting on the arm of the couch. "This is comfortable?"

"Yes."

Bain slowly peeled back one side of the blanket, then the other. His hand skimmed across the bulge in Mort's sweatpants and his teeth flashed briefly in a smile. "Ah..."

"Please...don't hurt me..."

"I swear." Bain slid from the couch and knelt beside it, bending forward to rest his cheek against Mort's. "I swear I will die before I hurt you. May I kiss you now?"

Mort nodded again, then closed his eyes. He felt Bain's lips slide sideways, across his mouth, the pressure gentle, a kiss one might give to a child. Oh god, that feels good. It's been so long...

Bain didn't linger, moving onward, fingertips walking sideways down his chest, almost tickling...only not...a trail of moisture from a tonguetip following in their wake, circling one nipple, then the other, down, down...

He shifted his hips at Bain's urging, and felt himself freed from the constricting material. Fingers closed around him, exploring gently, then not so. Oh god, just like that morning, in bed. He knows just what to do, just how to touch me...I can't believe I'm letting him do this...I don't want him to stop...

Mort threw back his head with a groan when Bain's mouth engulfed him, arching mindlessly into the sensation. Oh sweet Jesus, I want this to go on forever. I want...I want...I need...

With a shudder, he exploded. The sensation seemed to throw him upward, then drop him back down in a limp, gasping heap, incapable of thought or movement. He felt Bain gently cleaning him. Felt Bain cover him again, then wrap him in the blanket and turn him gently onto his side. Felt Bain's lips close to his ear and heard a soft laugh.

"I believe this was good for you, sí?"

"Sí..."

Bain carefully fit his body onto the couch behind Mort. "I am grateful that you chose a couch with such a wide seat, and that we are not wide men." He snuggled, chin resting on Mort's shoulder. "Is this all right?"

"Sí." Mort struggled, and finally managed a breathless, "Bain...thank you."

Bain kissed his earlobe. "There is no need for thanks. To do this was an honor for me. Sleep now. Rest."

That sounds like an excellent idea...


	9. Part 9

Endless apologies for the delay in posting the rest of this story. Because I rely heavily on the use of italics to show Mort's thoughts, I became very upset with the way the place was wiping them out, so I concentrated on getting the story into my Live Journal (properly formatted, but in the NC-17 version). I've just realized that I might have some readers here who didn't follow me there, so…here's the rest of it!

Warning: At various times along the way, this story contains bad language, violence, and m/m sex, not all of it consensual. If any of these things disturb you, don't continue.

Neither Mort nor Bain belong to me. I wish.

Eternal thanks to Miss Becky, for beta-reading certain parts of this in the face of a hurricane!

Secrets

by Melody Wilde

Part 9

Mort woke slowly, in sections. A leg shifting. A hand twitching up to scratch at an itch on his hip. A jaw-popping yawn.

I can't remember the last time I woke up feeling so good. So relaxed. I feel… Happy. I feel happy!

He stretched, yawning again, and suddenly became aware of the fabric beneath his face and his body, the quilt over his bare chest. I'm not in bed. Where am I? He cautiously opened one eye halfway. Sunlight. It's morning. And I'm on the couch. The couch?

And then he remembered. Last night. What Bain did to me. What I **let** Bain do to me. Oh shit... It made him blush with embarrassment and squirm with the memory of pleasure. Pleasure? Hell yes, fucking incredible pleasure. God, it felt so good! I don't know how somebody who hurt me so badly can turn around and make me feel so damn good, but...

"I can tell that you are awake and thinking again."

Mort turned his head, an involuntary smile lifting the corners of his lips. "Bain?"

"Who else?" There was a soft laugh and footsteps, moving across from the kitchen. "Good morning."

Mort rolled over with another stretch—just like the contented cat I am right now—as Bain set two steaming cups of coffee on the low table. He pushed himself up on one elbow and reached for the nearest cup, suddenly, stupidly, shy. "Morning."

"You **were** thinking again, weren't you? You do too much of that, Mort Rainey." Bain pushed Mort's feet out of the way and perched on the end of the couch, leaning forward to take the other cup.

Mort risked a sideways glance as he sipped the steaming liquid. Bain was fresh, smiling broadly, his damp hair falling in curls around his face. Beautiful. He's a beautiful man. Wait a minute. What the fuck is going on here in my brain? I'm just on the dark side of forty, and I've never in my entire life thought another man was beautiful. But then there are a lot of things happening right now that I never...

"And you are **still** thinking." Bain clicked his tongue against his teeth. "What is it that occupies your mind so much this morning?"

Mort shrugged.

"Are you perhaps thinking that you would like a repeat of last night's activity?"

"I..." Mort cleared his throat, disconcerted by the laughter in Bain's voice and his own body's instant response to the words. Repeat performance? I sure as hell **would** like one. But I'm not sure why, other than the obvious. Is it just because I've been so alone—so fucking alone and so fucking unloved—for so long? Am I that pathetic? That hungry for love? That I'd hang on to the first person who shows me the least bit of kindness and affection, even if it's somebody who raped me?

I guess I **am** that pathetic, because oh god, I want him to touch me again, like he did last night, like...

"If you do, I would be more than happy to oblige." Bain set down the coffee and lay his hand on Mort's shoulder. "I wish that you would start feeling, not thinking, for me now, just for a little while. I know you have this need to think—to explore—to try to understand what is going on around you and inside you. That is what makes you a good writer. But I believe it is also making your life...less happy."

He leaned closer. "Me, I do not think so much in the way you do, but I have the same need to understand people. This is as necessary in my line of work as it is in yours. This morning, the thing I understand most is that you are hurting, in so many ways. I would like to heal those hurts. If this helps..."

Mort risked another sideways glance. Bain's face was close, his eyes soft, his expression gentle. Helps? Oh yeah it helps everything, but how can I ask...

"Do not think, my friend. For the moment, can you try only to feel?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"And do you want me to touch you again?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Good. This is so good."

He didn't remember putting his coffee cup down. Didn't remember moving. But somehow he and Bain were sprawled on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quilt, his arms around the other man's waist, his mouth opening eagerly for Bain's tongue. A moan rose in the back of his throat, and Bain took it, swallowing it, replying with a knee sliding up between Mort's legs.

Oh shit oh fuck oh god. Bain's fingers were raking through his hair, holding him in that endless, mindless kiss, as their bodies began to rock together, straining against each other. I want him to...I want to...

Mort let a hand slide down Bain's back, across his hip, fumbling with the denim that covered him. Bain chuckled and pulled away.

"No…" It was the wail of a child denied a toy.

I can't believe that sound came out of my mouth. But...oh god I don't want him to stop. Not yet. Not ever.

"Patience, my friend." Bain moved quickly, gracefully, stripping away his own clothing, sliding Mort's sweatpants down and off, then settling back against him. "There. That is better, yes?"

Pressed together, skin to skin, erections caught between their bodies. Yes. Better. Better…doesn't even begin to describe… I can't believe how this feels. I can't believe... I want…want…want…

Mort whimpered and reached, but Bain caught his wrist.

"Slowly. Slowly." Bain raised the hand to his lips and licked the tip of each finger. "This is too good to hurry."

And he **didn't** hurry. It went on forever, mouths fusing, bodies twisting against each other, hands sliding, exploring, until at last Bain's fingers caught him. He moved his own hand to grasp Bain and was rewarded with a low groan of pleasure from the other man. They quickly found their rhythm, moving together, touching and being touched, stroking, urging, finding almost simultaneous release.

Mort pressed his face into Bain's neck, feeling the pounding of the other man's heart against his own, trying to slow his breathing. Incredible. Oh god, that was incredible. Better than last night. Better than… He felt himself relaxing, drifting toward sleep again. I feel good. I feel...safe...

"I am sorry, Mort." Bain was shaking him gently. "We do not have time for the napping thing now."

"What?" He forced his eyes open, tilted his head back.

"We have things to do today and this..." Bain ran a finger down Mort's chest. "Pleasant as it has been, has put us behind schedule."

What could we possibly have to do that's more important than staying right here, with him holding me and touching me and me wondering how long it'll be before I can ask if we can do this again and…

"First, we must clean up. Dress. And then..." Bain freed himself from Mort's embrace and stood. "I am going to prove to you that I am a real person."

"I…" His voice didn't want to work somehow. "I know you're real."

Bain lifted an eyebrow. "_Bueno_. But still, I would like for there to be no doubts. And after I have proved my realness to you, we will discuss this John Shooter that I did not see."

Shooter. Oh fuck. He really knows how to break a good mood.

"Up." Bain gestured. "Shower. You first."

Shower? "Are we going somewhere?"

Bain's teeth flashed in a grin. "Yes. We are going to New London for lunch."

---------------------------------

You know this is your chance to get away from him, before he changes his mind and goes back to hurting you.

"Turn left here."

He doesn't know the town. All you have to do is jump out of the car when you get to the light by the police station. You could be inside before he could pull a gun. Assuming he brought the gun along. Just because you had a good time last night…and this morning…a hell of a good time…that doesn't really change anything, does it? Does it? Just because…

"And here?"

"Sorry." He blinked. "Right. It's about five more miles down this road."

The car swung onto the main road and gathered speed. Mort went back to staring blindly out the side window.

He didn't threaten me before we left. Didn't give me a list of rules. Didn't follow me to the shower. Not that he needed to—he's already seen everything I've got. Close up. He shifted slightly, letting the ache in his side remind him of one of the things Bain had done to him. Still hurts there. I'm lucky he didn't break some ribs. Or worse. He still could. He's being nice…really, really nice, in every way…right now, but what about tonight? Tomorrow? What about…

"Mort?"

"Um."

"I know what you are thinking now."

"I'm not—"

"Mort." Bain shook his head. "I know you are thinking about running from me when we reach town. And I cannot blame you for wanting to run. I hurt you, and all my regret—all the regret in the world—cannot change that. If you wish to run…I would be sad, but I would understand."

"**I **don't understand. If you think I'm going to…to try to escape, why are you bringing me here?"

"To show you that I am real. You say that Shooter is not real because others did not see him. If other people in this town see me, then I am real. Simple, no?" He slowed to allow a Honda to pull in front of them.

"People saw you when we were here before. I told you before we left that I know you're real. That business last night was nothing but me being bugfuck crazy. No, that's not… Why are you giving me the chance to get away from you?"

Bain laughed softly. "It is good to see that you are talking to me of these things instead of just thinking. Perhaps it is…to see if you will leave me. If you will trust me."

"Can you give me a reason to trust you? Besides the…" He felt his face grow hot.

"No. But I can give you a reason to stay. I want to help you in this matter of John Shooter before I leave you. And if you run from me, I will not be able to." He lay a hand on Mort's leg. "You need to think now."

Leave me? He's going to leave me? And how do I feel about that? Glad to be rid of him? Sorry that the great sex is going? How about just fucking confused? Okay, Mort, you're not stupid. You know what's going on here. You've read the books and seen the movies. It's the victim identifying with his kidnapper because he's all alone and he'll go for the first hint of somebody being nice to him. And you're falling for it, hook, line, and hot sex. So now you have a choice. What are you going to do?

I wish to hell I knew the answer.

"Mort?"

He realized the car had stopped, even though the light was green. The police station loomed to his right, two burly men in uniform leaning against a cruiser not three feet away.

"Will you be leaving me here?"

I don't believe it. He really **is** giving me a chance to get away.

A horn honked from behind them, and one of the officers straightened, glaring in Bain's direction.

And son of a bitch, I'm not going to take it.

"I really am fucking crazy."

"Is that a no?"

"Yeah. That's a no." Mort jerked his head forward. "Drive before they come over."

The car moved on, away from the station and the too-interested policeman. Okay, okay. Made your bed, now lie in it. Or…do whatever in it. Now just shut the fuck up, brain. No more thinking. Enjoy the day. God knows I haven't enjoyed much, except writing, the past few years.

Until Bain showed up at my front door. There have been some really good times with him. Bad ones too, but…

He glanced sideways, the edges of his mouth creeping up, as Bain cruised through the center of the city and parked in the strip mall, near the supermarket. Bain set the emergency brake and stopped the engine, then turned toward him.

"Thank you for staying with me. I was afraid. I am glad you chose as you did."

"Me too."

"I do not want to hurt you again, Mort Rainey. Never."

Mort nodded. "I believe you."

Bain's sudden smile was dazzling. "I would like to kiss you now, but I think that would be inappropriate here. So let us walk instead."

------------------------------------

The sun was going down by the time they returned to the cabin. Mort led the way in, arms overloaded with bags, reaching back with an elbow to flip the light switch on. The day had been…

He headed for the kitchen and settled the groceries on the table, then retraced his steps to drop the other bags on the couch. Fun. It was fun. I can't remember the last time I had such a good time just doing nothing. Well, not exactly "nothing" but...nothing. Yes I do. Over the weekend—that was fun. With him.

"Mort? Should I put these things in your refrigerator?"

"Yeah. I'll take this upstairs." He grabbed the three largest bags, which bore the name of an exclusive men's store in New London, and started up the steps.

They'd done nothing, but it had meant…everything. They'd spent the morning wandering down the streets, looking into windows, going into the stores that caught their fancy in one way or another, Bain going out of his way to speak to people until Mort had finally said, "Okay, cut it out. I give. You're real." They'd had lunch at a deli Mort hadn't even thought of in over five years. They'd spent hours in a used book store, discussing the merits of various authors, and emerged with so many books they'd had to make a quick detour back to Bain's car to drop them off before they could go on.

When they'd passed the clothing store, Bain had ushered him inside, insisting that it was time to replace his wardrobe. "You are a good man, my friend," he'd muttered as he'd shoved jeans and shirts and sweaters into Mort's arms, "but you have no dress sense." When Mort had protested that his clothes were fine, Bain had escorted him to a dressing room and pointed meaningfully. And he hadn't said another word. He'd tried everything on, modeling them for Bain and the delighted clerk, and accepted Bain's judgement on what "worked" and what didn't. To his surprise, Bain had paid for the clothing, ignoring Mort's protests. "This is my treat," he'd said. "My pleasure." There had been a smile in his eyes that had warmed Mort to the core.

Their final stop had been the supermarket, where they had loaded a buggy with enough food to last at least a week. Bain had paused in the wine section, lifting a bottle and glancing at Mort with a raised eyebrow. "Will it bother you if we have wine?" Mort had shaken his head without a thought.

"Are you going to hang those up or just leave them in the bags?"

Oops. "Sorry." Mort upended the bags and let the clothing fall onto the bed. "It'll just take a minute. I'll—"

"Ah, Mort, you are so special to me."

Bain slid an arm around his waist from behind, pulling him back into a loose embrace. Holding him. It wasn't a threatening type of holding or a sexual type of holding. It was...friendship...affection...maybe even...

"Today was good." Bain's voice rustled softly against his ear.

"Yes."

Bain's arms tightened briefly, then released. "Let me help you with these, and then we will go eat."

They worked in silent tandem, hanging and folding into drawers, until the bed was clear, then headed back to the kitchen for their take-out. Each claiming an end of the couch, they channel-surfed and finally agreed on the Game Show Network, then settled back, laughing and calling out answers as they ate.

"This is what I wanted from you when I came here."

Mort glanced sideways, pushing the remains of his meal aside at the expression on Bain's face. He fumbled for the remote, clicking it and almost flinching at the sudden silence that filled the room.

"I don't understand."

"The time we have spent together today. Tonight. Laughing. Enjoying. Being friends. This is what I wanted to have with you. Oh, I wanted the other, too, but this is what I hoped we could have."

I still don't understand what he's talking about. A relationship? Is that possible? Maybe. Maybe not. I can't forget how he hurt me. But then…he's like this and I can't believe he'd ever do it again. I like him. And the sex was… I think I'd be willing to give it a try, for a while anyway. Should I tell him that?

He opened his mouth, but nothing seemed to want to come out, so he closed it again. Bain smiled.

"I know you are confused about me. About these things that are happening between us."

No shit. You're right about that one.

"I do not think I can stay here with you much longer, and that grieves me. But before I go, I am going to take care of this John Shooter matter, so that you can go on with you life."

Now those are things I understand. He's leaving. And he thinks he's going to take care of Shooter, only he can't, because Shooter's not real. Oh shit oh shit.

"Don't." The word was a croak.

Bain's eyebrow went up. "Don't?"

"Today...it's been..." What? Is there a word to describe what today's meant for me—been for me—how good it was to feel normal? "Don't ruin it by talking about him." Don't make me remember that I'm crazy. That I've killed people.

Bain nodded slowly. "All right. Not tonight." He leaned back against the cushions, propped his feet up on the table, and smiled. "Shall we go back to Jeopardy, then?"


	10. Part 10

I see that I still have no italics, but I'm forging on anyway. Properly formatted version is in my LJ.

Continued warning—bad language, violence, m/m sex. These beautiful but crazy men don't belong to me. And, as always, thanks to Miss Becky for inspiring and beta-ing.

Secrets

by Melody Wilde

Part 10

"My, my, my. So now you're lettin' your fuckbuddy buy your clothes for you. You **have** come down in the world, Mr. Rainey."

Mort spun at the sound of Shooter's voice, grabbing a pair of jeans and holding them in front of himself protectively. Shooter was standing in the doorway of the dressing room, shaking his head.

"You know what that makes you, don't you. His whore." Shooter took a step forward, and Mort backed away as far as possible in the confined space, trying to press himself through the wall.

"Yes, sir, his whore." Shooter slowly removed his hat and hung it on one of the hooks, then rubbed his hands together. "And a man that'll sell hisself once'll do it again. I gotta wonder what you'd charge **me**."

"Get away from me." Mort was dismayed to hear that his voice sounded more terrified than threatening.

"Or what? You'll call your friend to come in here?" Shooter leaned forward slightly, closing the distance between them and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "He can't help you none right now. Don't you know that he's not **here.**"

"Nightmare. I'm having a nightmare. That's all this is. A nightmare."

"There you were, thinkin' you'd be safe from me, sleepin' in the bed with him and all. But you were wrong." Shooter's hand came forward to stroke his cheek, and he whimpered.

"Leave me alone."

"That boy truly does think he's gonna get rid of me. He don't know that he can't, 'cause I'm not real."

"He will. He'll find a way."

"You think so? Is that why you let him touch you when you all went to bed? Why you let him put his hands and his mouth all over you? Why you put your mouth on him? 'Cause you think he can get rid of me?" Shooter bared his teeth in a smile. "Or maybe it's 'cause you **like** them things. Why, next thing you know, you'll be lettin' him fuck you in the ass and not hollerin' rape."

"Oh Jesus..."

"You better remember that **he's** gonna be gone one of these days, but I'm gonna be with you for the rest of your life. You better start bein' as good to me as you are to him. 'Course, I'm way ahead of him there." He pulled the jeans away and lay a hand on Mort's bare chest. "'Cause I've already **been** inside you." His hand began to slide downward. "I been inside you for three years now."

Mort screamed.

"Mort!"

A hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. He jerked awake, shaking uncontrollably, chest heaving. Can't breathe. I can't breathe. Can't...

"What is it? What is wrong, my friend?"

Scared. I'm so scared. Shooter...what he said. He's…he's…

"He's right."

"Who is right?" Bain's hand was kneading gently, soothingly, on the back of his neck.

"Shooter. He's right. You can't get rid of him. You'll never get rid of him. Never never never."

"Shhh." Bain's voice was little more than a whisper. "You have had a nightmare."

"No. I mean, yes..." A nightmare. I know it was a nightmare. I **knew** it was a nightmare, even...there. But that doesn't make what he said any less real. What he said is as real as...as he isn't.

Bain leaned across him to turn on the light by the bed. "Look at me. You are awake now. You are safe. Whatever happened to you in your dream, it is over. Gone."

"He'll never be gone." Mort rolled onto his side, away from Bain, curling into a ball. Today was too good. Everything about it. I was starting to think maybe I...we... So Shooter had to come and remind me that I don't deserve anything good. The only thing I deserve is to be punished for what I did. All I deserve is...

"Mort, do not do this to yourself. Please. It was only a dream."

"You don't understand."

"All right. I do not. Then explain it to me, my friend. You have told me all the things this man did—to you, to your friends. How he made you suffer. But he has been gone for some time now, no?"

"No. He's never been gone, because he was never here. I just didn't remember." Didn't remember, didn't remember. Killed four people and didn't remember. Crazy crazy crazy. Crazy Mort Rainey. Mort curled his fingers into a fist and shoved it against his mouth to stop himself from screaming.

He was being dragged upright and propped against the headboard of the bed. He could feel the metal rails digging into the skin of his back, chilling him. Cold. The room got cold while we were asleep. Or maybe it's because I'm naked. I don't sleep naked, but last night I let Bain do things to me and then I... Oh god, I'm so cold.

"Mort...my friend... Stay with me. Please. Do not go away into yourself again."

Into myself. Where Shooter is. Inside me. Always there. He's always been there. Oh Jesus, how could I let myself have such a good time yesterday? How could I get so caught up in…in the sex and friendship that I didn't think about anything else? How could I pretend I was a normal man having a normal day? That I hadn't…

His head rocked with a blow, the pain shocking him back to awareness. The side of his face stung. He lifted a trembling hand to touch his cheek, then cowered away with a wordless cry as he saw Bain drew back an open hand to strike again.

Bain froze. "You are back with me now?"

Oh god, he's going to hurt me again.

Bain dropped the hand. When he spoke, there was genuine regret in his voice. "I am so sorry, my friend. I did not want to do that, but I had to do something to stop you—to bring you back." He tugged at Mort's wrist. "Let me see."

Mort dropped his hand onto his lap and let Bain lightly touch his cheek. I can't... It's... I think in just a few minutes here I'm going to start screaming and I'm not going to be able to stop.

"I believe we have to talk. And I believe we must do it now."

"Wh…" He swallowed. "What about?" Stupid. You know 'what about'. This is going to be bad bad bad.

"Many things, my friend, but the most important is…this." He gestured. "What is going on in your busy mind. What makes you act so…"

"Crazy? Because I am." He tried to look away, but Bain caught his chin between a thumb and forefinger.

"Look at me, Mort. What makes you think this thing?"

"I don't think it. I **know** it." He wanted to let his head droop, let his bangs cover his face, let himself drift away into his madness and never come back.

"All right. What makes you **know **this thing?"

"It's a long story."

A corner of Bain's lips twitched. "We have time. I do not think either of will be going back to sleep for a while."

Okay, he wants to hear the ugly truth. Only maybe it won't be so ugly to him, him being an assassin and all—assuming he wasn't lying about that to try to scare me.

"Mort?"

Mort straightened, regaining control of himself with an effort. "Okay. But can we go downstairs to talk? I could use a glass or two of that wine about now." Maybe if I can get a little drunk, it'll make it easier to say what I have to tell him about Shooter. About me. About Amy and Ted and oh fuck...

Bain nodded. He rose, leaned down to retrieve Mort's jeans and sweater and tossed them onto the bed. Mort fumbled himself into his clothing. This is the end of any hope I might've had for us to…no. Don't think that. You never had any hope. Just some stupid pipe dream about being…where are my socks? It's so cold.

Bain held onto his arm to steady him as they descended the stairs, steering Mort to the couch, then crossing to the fireplace and beginning to build a fire with quick, efficient movements.

I don't want to do this. I want things to go on like they did yesterday. I don't want to think about Shooter or the things I did. I want…

The quilt was still there, folded across the back of the couch. Mort shook it out and wrapped it around his legs, then drew them up onto the seat.

"Are you really what you said? An assassin?" His voice sounded small in the darkness of the room.

Bain struck a match, lit the fire, then began to feed wood into it. At last he rose, his shoulders lifting and falling in a shrug.

"I am sorry. Yes. I am. I was."

So he wasn't lying. I wonder how many people **he's** killed…no, don't think about it. But maybe he'll think me killing only four people is nothing. That I'm just a beginner. Maybe the killing won't bother him. Maybe...

Maybe he wouldn't mind being with a crazy murderer. Mort tilted his head back, sinking his teeth into his lower lip. I am not going to cry. I am fucking not going to cry any more.

"Here. Drink this."

A glass was pressed into his hand. He looked down. Bain had decided to bypass the wine glasses—the wine glasses that Amy insisted we bring here for God knows what reason—and had poured a tumbler full of the burgundy liquid. He raised the glass and gulped down half the contents without pausing for breath, feeling it burn its way down through him.

Bain had left the lights off, as if he knew the near-darkness would make it easier for Mort to speak. He touched Mort's hair quickly, then moved to perch on the other end of the couch.

"Now tell me why you think..." He lifted a finger and tilted his head, correcting himself. "**Know** that you are crazy."

Mort stared toward the fireplace, unable to look at the figure beside him. "That night...when I told you all those things about Shooter...about the things he did... I thought it was the truth. I thought he was real. I've thought that since...he left. Didn't leave." He took another swallow of wine. "I was wrong. There is no John Shooter. No such person. There never was. I...I forgot what really happened. What I did." He stopped.

"And that is?"

"I'm the one who killed them. Amy. Ted. Tom. Ken. God knows who else...who else I've killed along the way and then just forgotten about it. Just...fucking...forgotten." His chest hitched. I. Am. Not. Going. To. Cry.

"Why do you think these things, Mort?" Bain's voice was impossibly soft.

"That day…when Shooter was by the bed talking to me and you didn't see him... All of a sudden I knew. He wasn't there. Because he wasn't real. He never had been real. And then I started to...remember. I remembered slicing Ken open with the hatchet. Driving a screwdriver into the side of Tom's head. Oh Jesus..."

Bain waited patiently, silent and immobile, until he could go on.

"I remembered hitting Ted in the face with a shovel. And then when he was down I hit him again and again and again until...until he didn't **have** a face. And then I went to Amy and..." I can see her expression. Hear her crying. She was scared, so scared, as scared as I am now. "And then I buried them in the garden and planted corn over their graves and went inside and forgot everything."

"And Shooter?"

"There was no Shooter. Just me. I made him up. I made him up so he could do the things I couldn't. Burn down my house. Kill anybody who got in the way. Kill Amy and Ted. But it wasn't him. It was me." He drained the glass, hoping Bain would go for more.

"So." Bain leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "For the past three years you have believed John Shooter killed your friends. That your wife and her lover ran away. But now you suddenly...'remember'...that it was you who did these murders. That these people did not run away. That they are all dead at your hands."

"Yes."

"Am I understanding what you are saying to me, Mort Rainey? You are saying that you believe you have an evil side, who appeared to you as a man named Shooter."

"Yes."

The fire popped. Bain rose, moved to stir it and add another piece of wood, then returned, sitting closer and laying a hand on Mort's arm. "You are not crazy, my friend. This is only one more manifestation of your most understandable confusion."

"What?" _What the fuck is he saying? Didn't he listen to me?_

"You think that you have an evil side?" Bain shook his head. "I do not believe this. You write about evil—and write well—but you know nothing of real evil. Of the evil men do to each other. Of the evil..." His fingers tightened. "Of the evil I have done. **I** am the one here with an evil being inside. A demon that I cannot control, who takes over to make me do things I would not. To give hurt when I would love. Me, not you. You saw this. You were hurt. You know."

"But..."

Bain raised a hand to silence him. "Let me explain what I think has happened. You were ill. It was my fault. As you...slept, I could see that you were having very very bad dreams. I felt that this, too, was my fault, that these dreams were caused by the the terrible things I did to you."

He laced his fingers together and nodded, speaking slowly. "When you woke, I believe you were still dreaming for a time—still caught in your nightmare. You thought this man who had done so much hurt to you—this other man, not me—was beside the bed, talking to you. Because it was only your dream...your hallucination...I could not see him. And so, in your weakness, your confusion, you became convinced he was not real. And then…"

He turned his face toward Mort, the firelight throwing shadows across his features. "And then you convinced yourself to regain these so-called memories. You believe they are real, but they are false. They are as much a fantasy as the figure of Shooter by the bed that day. Shooter, who is a real man. But not on that day. Not that one time."

Mort could only stare at him in stunned silence. _What he's saying makes sense. I've read about cases like that—lots of them—where folks remember things that never happened. But...oh shit I wish to god that was it, that it could be that simple, but it's not going to be that easy. Because the memories **are** real. I **do** remember. And I **did** murder..._

Why don't I remember killing Chico?

Something thumped hopefully in his chest. _If I remember the others in such detail, why don't I remember putting the screwdriver into my dog? Is it because… Could he be…_

"You are thinking again, and this is good thinking. You see that what I am saying is right."

"No." _Not right, but...possible?_ "Maybe."

"I am right, my friend. You are not a man who is capable of killing."

"You don't know that. You don't know me."

"I know your work. I know the things I have read about you. I know you from the time we have spent together, even though it has not all been a good time. And I know killers. You are not like that."

He's so convinced. Maybe...maybe he's right. Maybe...

"There is, of course, an easy way to settle this." Bain's tone was smug.

"How?"

"Tomorrow morning, I will dig up your cornfield."

"What?"

"If there are no bodies, I will be right and you will see that you have been wrong. And if there should happen to be bodies, then..." He shrugged. "But there will not be. It is simple, yes?"

_Yes. Simple. And when...**if **he finds them…then what?_

"This will destroy your crop, but I believe it will be worth it to bring you peace of mind. You can always buy corn." He rose, as if the matter were settled. "Afterwards, we will discuss the things that are between us. The good and the bad. We will talk about what I did to you and how I can repair the pain in your heart and your mind which is responsible for this breakdown. But for now..." He gestured. "Come back to bed and let me warm you."

Mort's knees were wobbly when he stood. _Too much wine.__ Too much...fear...hope...oh god, I don't know what to believe now._ He swayed against Bain, and Bain's arms were around him, holding him, supporting him, protecting him.

"Yes, my friend. Lean on me."

_Warm me. Please._

And Bain did, for the rest of the night.


	11. Part 11 12

Two for the price of one this time, since I had both parts in one file. Warnings—violence, bad language, m/m sex. Bain digs up the garden. 

They're not mine. And still more hugs to Miss Becky, who deserves them for putting up with me during this whole endless process.

Secrets 

by Melody Wilde

Part 11 

Mort groaned as he slowly came awake. Even though he was alone, the bed was still warm enough to make him want to stay where he was, snuggle in, and go back to sleep. _No. I should at least check the time first, then..._

He rolled over, holding the covers close around him, and struggled to extricate his right arm just enough to see his watch. _11:15. 11:15? Oh shit. I didn't mean to sleep so late. _

_Where's Bain?_

He had a vague memory of the bed shifting as Bain left, of fingers brushing the hair back from his forehead in a caress, of a soft, "Sleep on, my friend."

_He's gone out to...oh fuck...he's in the garden. He's started on the garden._

Panic jolted him upward. _He'll find them and I won't be there and he'll...he'll...what? Oh shit._ He grabbed his glasses and flung himself out of bed, ignoring the chill in the room. He stumbled through the door, across the balcony that had become his workspace, to the window. _Amy's window, Amy's secret window over Amy's secret garden, only it's my garden now or maybe it's still Amy's after all because Amy's down there somewhere and he's going to find her and..._

He jerked the window open and leaned out. Bain lifted a hand and waved up at him.

"Good morning."

_How long has he been there? I can't tell. Has he... _

As if aware of Mort's concerns, Bain gestured at the area he had cleared around himself and the pile of withered cornstalks to one side. "I have been up for a while. I had coffee before I came out to start."

"Have you... is there..."

Bain laughed and shook his head. "Mort, Mort, Mort. I have not yet begun to dig, so how could I have found these things that I will not find?"

_But he will. I think. I should...maybe..._

"You look very cold, standing there like that. Get dressed. I will come inside and join you for another cup of coffee."

_Right. Clothes. Coffee._ He pushed the window shut, then made his way back to the bedroom. _Get dressed. I'm going to go out and help him. I need to. I have to._

He dressed quickly, mechanically—shorts, undershirt, jeans, socks, sweater—then sat on the edge of the bed to lace up his boots. A door slammed, and he heard Bain's footsteps crossing through to the kitchen. _It's such a **normal** sound. I wish..._

He hurried in the bathroom, not bothering to shave, then clattered down the steps to join Bain. Bain turned, holding out a steaming cup.

"Ah. Better. You look warmer. Did you sleep well the rest of the night?"

Mort nodded, gulping at the coffee, feeling it burn all the way down.

"Gently, my friend. Sip. The work will wait for us." Bain's eyes were twinkling with amusement. "It is colder out today, so the movement is good."

"I want to help you."

Bain pursed his lips. "I had hoped that you might use this day to write—I have kept you from your writing for far too long already—but if this is what you wish..."

"I don't think I could. Write. Not...not today." _Not with you out there digging, digging, digging._

"I understand. Later, then."

_Oh god, he's so sure...when he finds them..._

"Mort." Bain set down his cup and leaned forward, curling a hand around the back of Mort's neck, beneath his hair. "You should not worry about this. I do not."

_But you don't know what I do. What I think I do. _"I'm just...afraid..."

"Do not be, my friend." Bain pressed his forehead against Mort's. "All will be well. You will see." He tilted his head to touch his lips to Mort's cheek. "Come, then. Let us start so we can finish this business and move on."

They bundled into jackets and gloves and knit caps, then went out through the door that led directly into the garden. Mort hesitated on the steps, swallowing hard against the nausea that rose at the sight of the denuded earth.

"We are lucky. It has not yet been cold enough for the ground to become hard." Bain retrieved the shovel. "Do you have another?"

"No." _The shovel. I used that shovel to...to... I'm going to throw up in about five seconds here if I'm not careful. _

"We will take turns then." Bain gestured. "Where should I start?"

"Start?" _What's he talking about? Deep breaths here, Morty ol' boy._

"Where will I find these...bodies? Where should I start digging? On one end? In the center? How far down should I dig? How deep?"

_Where? How deep? How should I know? Wait. I should know. I buried them. I should be able to..._

Bain was waiting. Mort shivered. "I don't remember."

Bain laughed. "Of course you do not remember. Good, good. Your fantasies are beginning to go, yes?"

_No. I know they're down there. I just don't remember exactly where or how far down._

"All right. I will start here and work across." Bain pushed the end of the shovel into the dirt and began to dig.

Mort leaned against the side of the cabin, watching Bain dig with easy, practiced movements, watching the hole widen and deepen with each passing minute. _It won't be long now. He must be getting close. How deep **are** they? He's going to find them. They're probably... It's been three years. But he's going to find something. He's going to..._

He realized he was shaking with cold and fear seconds before his knees gave way. He managed to drop sideways, landing on the steps, and lowered his head. He heard the sounds of digging cease.

"Mort? Are you all right?"

_Breathe. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. _

"Mort, this is not good for you." Bain was beside him, urging him to his feet, guiding him back into the house. "I want you to stay inside. Read. Watch television. Try to write. Anything. But do not watch. I thought the watching would be good for you, but I can see..." He frowned.

_It's tearing me apart. But waiting's going to be just as bad in here as it was out there._

"I...I want to be there," he managed. "I want to help."

"I can do this alone. I want to do this, for you. Please?"

Mort nodded wearily. _It doesn't matter. Whatever's going to happen will happen, no matter where I am._

He tried to do what Bain had asked. He sat on the couch and tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He tried to make his mind go blank. _All that fucking money I spent for Amy and me to learn how to meditate. I should be able to do this._ He gave up and, instead, counted to a thousand, then a thousand again. He picked up the nearest book and stared at the words for what seemed hours. Finally, he rose and began to pace, toward the front door, to the kitchen, over to glance out at Bain.

The mound of displaced earth behind Bain was now higher than his head. As Mort looked on, Bain suddenly went still, leaning on the shovel and looking downward with an unreadable expression.

Mort heard himself begin to keen wordlessly. _Oh god...he's found them...oh god...no no no..._

He ran for the small half-bath, dropping to his knees with bone-jarring force in front of the toilet, and began to retch violently. _No no no I almost hoped no no no no I knew...knew...but I wanted to...oh god...hope...I wanted to believe I wanted to..._

There were hands sliding beneath his arms to raise him, turning him to sit on the toilet seat. Water running in the sink. The splash of a washcloth. Cool wetness on his face, his mouth. His glasses were lifted away. Cloth moving across his streaming eyes—_I didn't even realize I was crying_—then back down to his throat, his lips.

"I am so sorry, Mort. I had no idea the waiting would be so hard for you."

He blinked up at Bain. _There's nothing different...he's not disgusted or angry or...how can he not..._

"Are you all right now?"

_Never. I'm never going to be all right again. Oh god, I wish..._

Bain leaned back, shaking his head. "I am glad that I decided to come in when I did to ask a favor of you."

_A favor? He came to ask me a favor? He didn't...?_

Mort took several hiccuping breaths. "I thought...thought you found..."

Bain lay the washcloth aside. "No, my friend. I only came to ask if you would go into New London for me."

"New London?"

"Yes. It is my gloves. They are good for the cold, but not for the digging. I wanted to ask if you would go and buy a pair of heavy work gloves for me, to protect my hands."

"Work gloves?" _Work gloves. He hasn't found...them. Not yet. An errand. He wants me to run an errand._

"Yes. A sturdy pair. And now I think perhaps we need another shovel too, so that you can come and join me in the digging."

_Another shovel. We. We need another shovel. And gloves._

"Mort? Will you be able to do this? To drive?"

"Yeah." He forced himself to wobbly feet, filled a cup with water, and rinsed his mouth. "Sure. I'll...I can do it. New London. Shovel. Work gloves."

"Two pairs. You will need some also."

"Right. I..." _I don't want to go to New London. I want to grab on to him and beg him to hold me and keep me safe. Christ, what's happening to me?_

"You are going to be all right, Mort Rainey. I promise this." Bain followed him to the door and helped him into his jacket, then leaned forward to brush a kiss across his face and press the car keys into his hand. "I swear. Now drive slowly. Do not take chances. Your mind is confused, so be very careful."

_I can do this. Into the car. Buckle the seatbelt. Keys in the ignition, start the car. Easy now, back up, turn...is he digging again? I can't see. Don't think about that. Think about gloves and a shovel. New London. I've driven this road a million times, I can do it in my sleep...I can do it today. Don't think. Drive._

He suddenly blinked and found himself on the outskirts of New London without knowing how he'd gotten there. _I'd say God's watching over fools today, except I don't think any god I've ever heard of would watch over me right now._

Mort circled, searching his memory for the location of the hardware store. _I've been there a dozen times over the past three years, picking up stuff for the cabin. More, before that, when it was me and Amy. Why can't I find...wait...there. Okay, easy now, into the parking place._

He was no less confused once inside and roaming the aisles. _Work gloves. Where are the work gloves?_

"Over here, sir."

_Oh shit, I'm talking to myself out loud._ He mumbled a quick thanks and headed over to stand and stare blankly at the selection. _What kind should I get? These? Those? What brand? What size? How big are his hands? I ought to know. Those hands touched me last night with such...such...no, not love. Those hands are digging up my wife and her lover right now..._

Grabbing two pairs of every kind, he moved back toward the front of the store, pausing only long enough to add a shovel to his purchases. _Okay, gloves, shovel. And what am I going to find when I get home? What? Maybe I should just keep on driving._

When he pulled back into his driveway and parked in front of the house, Bain stopped working and leaped gracefully out of the excavation to come toward the car. _He's smiling. Not yet then. He's not found them yet. They're waiting for me to come back and find them._

"Ah good." Bain lay a hand on Mort's shoulder. "I was beginning to think perhaps I should not have sent you alone on such a long errand."

"No. It's...I'm okay..." He strained to see past Bain, to see the remains of the garden.

Bain took the package and shovel from him and stepped back. "Come. Look. See what I have accomplished so far. And then we will finish together."

Mort walked around the closest pile of dirt to stare downward. Well over half the garden had been dug up, leaving a gaping hole almost three feet deep. _Nothing? He hasn't found anything yet? But I would've thought..._

Bain was rifling through the gloves, selecting a pair and pulling them on. "Perfect. Try these." He handed the second pair to Mort and leaped back down into the hole. "Am I digging deeply enough? I can go farther."

_I don't know. I don't remember. How deep did I bury them? **Did** I bury them?_

He pulled his own gloves on, joined Bain, and began to dig.

--------------------------

The sun was going down, bringing a pronounced drop in the temperature. Mort leaned against the side of the excavation—which was now easily five feet deep in spots—staring blankly ahead. Bain was still working, beginning to go down another layer.

_Nothing. There's nothing. No bodies. Not even a scrap of bone. Just... Nothing. He's going to dig to China and..._

_And they aren't there. Amy and Ted aren't buried in my cornfield. In her garden. They really **did** run away. Or Shooter killed them. Or...it doesn't matter what happened to them. They're not **here**._

A sob tore from his throat. Bain was instantly at his side, sliding an arm around him, holding him close, murmuring soft Spanish words. He leaned into the embrace and wept helplessly.

"You were right," he whispered at last. Exhaustion—physical and emotional—was overwhelming him, making him lightheaded. "They...they..."

"They are not here. And you are not crazy."

Mort drew a shuddering breath. _Not crazy. I'm not crazy after all. There aren't any bodies. There won't be an insane asylum. No jail. Just...me. Me and him._

"Let us go inside now. I do not know about you, my friend, but..." Bain's teeth flashed in the dimming light. "I could use a hot shower and something to eat and then a long nap."

_Yes. All that and then...oh god... Then I want him to..._

He couldn't finish the startling thought. _Later. I want to get warm and clean first and then..._ His stomach chose that moment to loudly remind him that he hadn't eaten all day. Bain laughed.

"Yes, me too. Come."

_Yes. Later._

-------------

The fire was blazing again, filling the room with its warmth. Mort huddled on what he was beginning to think of as "his" end of the couch, still-damp bangs hanging across his cheeks, sipping at the last of the soup Bain had heated. He was full. Comfortable. Content. He glanced toward the man on the other end of the couch and smiled.

"You are feeling better now, yes?"

"Yes."

"And your busy mind is still. Quiet for a change."

"Yes. It is."

"Then I hope I will not disturb it with the thing I want to tell you now." Bain stretched out an arm to touch Mort's. "I had thought we should talk about the past, once this business with the cornfield was over. That I should try to explain to you why I hurt you. That we should search for some way to heal that hurt. But tonight I wonder..."

He paused, as if searching for words. "I wonder if it would be better if we let the past go and look only at the future. For me, the future is... I have decided that I no longer have a need to do the business of killings. I have money—more money than I will ever need. What I did was never about money. It was about satisfying my evil side. About being recognized as the best by my peers. I do need that any more. I do not want to be that person any more. And for you, Mort Rainey, the future is..."

"Peace." _All these years, I've never felt at peace. In the back of my mind, where even I didn't see it, was all this...fear. Fear of someone discovering that I pushed Tom's car into the lake, fear that someone would know I'd been an accomplice to murder. Fear about what had happened to Amy and Ted. I think deep inside I've been afraid that I did kill them. Fear of Shooter, of how he tried to destroy my life—and damn near succeeded—over nothing. Fear that he'd come back and take away what little I had left. And now..._

"I'm not afraid anymore."

"Ah, Mort, that is such a good thing for me to hear." There was a gentle joy in Bain's voice that made Mort shiver. "Yes, I think you are better now. I can see something in your eyes that was not there before. And that makes all today's work—all the sore muscles—worthwhile."

"Bain..."

"Sí?"

_Say it. No more fear means I'm not going to be afraid of him either._

"I want you to fuck me."

Bain's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He began to shake his head. "You cannot mean..."

"I do. And I know you want it. You have since...since before you met me. I want to do this for you, just like you wanted to dig up the garden for me."

"What if I hurt you again?"

"You won't. I'm not going to let you, because this time I want it too."

The fingertips that reached up to touch Mort's cheek were trembling, and Mort smiled to see the other man so unnerved. "I will not hurt you. I swear this."

Mort leaned forward, into Bain's kiss. It was tentative. Tender. Searching. And then there was fire. They dragged each other up the steps to the bed, shedding clothing along the way, until they were falling, naked, into a tangle of limbs and tongues. Mort groaned, thrusting himself forward, offering, begging.

"Slowly, slowly..."

He felt Bain shift, reaching, and then he felt well-lubricated fingers searching, exploring, a gentle preparation that made Mort whimper and ache with need. _Oh god, that feels good. When he touches me...there..._

"Are you sure?" Bain's voice was soft.

"Please...please...please..."

And then there was pain, but somehow it wasn't a bad pain, and then they were together, joined, part of each other in a spiral of something that was more than lust, more than desire, more than sex. And then they were still, curled together in a sated heap, Bain's hand smoothing over his stomach in a ceaseless caress, Bain's lips mouthing soundless words against his shoulderblade.

_Good. Oh god, it was good. I never thought...never imagined...that I could feel so...so fulfilled._

_He's right. What happened...before...it doesn't matter now. It's over. It's time to let the past go and look toward the future. And for the first time in...how long? years. Years. I feel like I have a future—a real future—ahead of me. Like there's somebody who cares about me. A friend. A lover. It may not last, but while it does... _

Smiling, he snuggled closer to Bain and slept.

----------------------------

Part 12

"I need to tell you something, Mort."

_Oh Christ, here it comes._ Mort moved the cursor across the screen to click on the "save" button, then closed the file. _He's going to tell me he's had enough of me and he's leaving. I knew this was going to happen eventually. But I thought the relationship...the sex...the whatever the hell it is we've had since the night he dug up the cornfield...would last a little longer than four days._

He cut the power to the notebook and folded down the screen, then turned to face Bain. "Okay. Tell me."

"I am going to have to leave you today."

_That's it, then? Not even a "good morning" or "coffee ready?" or "great sex last night", just walks out, already dressed, and says, "I'm leaving." So long and thanks for all the fish. Today. To-fucking-day. If I'd known this was coming, I wouldn't have gotten up early to write. I'd have stayed in bed and enjoyed having somebody there with me, somebody I thought... No. Stop it. _

He nodded, forcing his face to remain impassive, making his hands go still on his lap, keeping his breathing steady. "Okay." He heard the quiver in his voice and cleared his throat before trying again. "Okay. Do you need help packing?"

"No." Bain dropped into the chair—_Chico's chair, poor old fella, I should've gotten another dog a long time ago, maybe I will when I'm alone again_—and rested his elbows on his knees. "I do not need to take many things. I will not be gone long."

_Woah. What? He won't be gone long? He's not leaving for good?_

"I have waited longer than I should have to do this, because I have enjoyed being here with you. I would prefer to stay here and continue as we have begun." Bain tilted his head to one side and gave Mort a slow smile of remembrance and promise. "But there is a thing I must do. I will do it as quickly as possible, and then come back. You **do** want me to come back?"

_He's going to come back. _"I...yes..."

"Ah, Mort..." Bain made a quick sound of reproof. "Surely you did not think I would leave you forever with no word of warning." He shook his head. "In the past few days, I have come to believe that you feel as I do—that what we have between us is a good thing. That it is a thing to be cared for. That it is a thing which can make both of us happy."

"Yes."

"I would not throw that away. We have both been alone for so long, even when there were others with us. I think we are not alone anymore. And that is why I must go and do what I must do."

_Can I ask? Should I ask? Is it any of my business?_

Seeing Mort's hesitation, Bain said quietly, "I am going to do one more...task before I retire."

_One more..._ "You're going to kill someone?"

"I am going to find John Shooter. I am going to do this for you, so that you will never need to fear him again."

_Great! No, wait. Oh shit. No. I can't let him do that. I can't let him commit murder. Kill somebody. Not even Shooter._

"You seem distressed. I thought you would be pleased."

"You can't just go out and..."

Bain laughed. "Of course I can. It is what I have done for many years. It will not bother me to do this one last time."

"But..."

"Would you not be happy to know that John Shooter is dead?"

_Oh, right on that one, pilgrim. After what he did to me, I'd like to see him dead and dismembered and scattered to the four corners of the globe, but I can't tell Bain that. Can't let him go kill somebody. Not for me. Digging up a cornfield's one thing, but murder... If he goes after Shooter...it'll be my fault. I'll be responsible. I'll be the accessory to another murder. I have to stop him. Have to..._

"Mort?"

"It's a waste of time. I don't know where he is. Nobody does. The arson investigators turned Mississippi inside out looking for him and couldn't find him."

"**I** will find him," Bain said flatly. "I have been in the business of finding those who cannot be found. Believe me, there is nowhere that this man can hide from me."

_I think he's right. He will find Shooter. And then it'll be Shooter's turn to be afraid. But..._

"Okay, go find him, but you can't kill him." His words—his tone—sounded pathetic even to himself.

"Can't?" Bain rose, shaking his head. "What would you have me do with him, then? Turn him over to the police? Tell them he is a murderer? And if I do that, what will happen? We do not know that he killed your wife and her lover. You cannot prove that he killed the two men who were in the car. No one saw him here—no one but you and one of the men he killed. He was very careful. Very clever. We would bring up the bodies from the lake, and it would be your word against his. I have seen how the people of this community feel toward you. I know who they would believe. No. This is the only way."

"Bain...please don't do this. Let it go." Mort stood, moving in front of the other man, reaching out to lay a hand on Bain's chest. "It doesn't matter. It—"

"Do not try to stop me." There was a disturbing tone in Bain's voice. "I **am** going to do this." He shook off the hand and started toward the stairs. "I will be back when I have done what I am going to do."

"No!" Mort reached again, grabbing Bain's arm, holding it to make him stop. "Wait. Listen to me. I..."

Bain's head jerked toward him. Too late, Mort recognized the expression on Bain's face, the blackness in his eyes. _Oh shit. Oh fucking shit._

"I'm sorry." He released his grip on Bain's arm and tried to move backwards. "I didn't mean to..."

_Too late._

He was being grabbed, hard, hurting fingers digging into his shoulders, spinning him, shoving. _Got to get away before he..._

His foot almost found the top step...then missed. He was falling...trying to catch himself...falling...

He slammed into the floor and the light went away.

-----------------

_Can't breathe. I think if I could breathe, I'd be screaming about now. Oh shit oh fuck..._

"Don't move! Don't try to move."

_Move? I can't even breathe. Hurts hurts hurts. Oh god my shoulder. There's something really really wrong with my shoulder._

The voice coming from somewhere above and behind him was saying something else in a voice that seemed to be shaking with terror. _That's funny. The idea of anything making Bain afraid...wait. Am I dead? Maybe he killed me. What's he saying?_

"Can you hear me, Mort?"

Something in his chest seemed to give way and he began to draw in huge gulps of air. _Breathing. Not dead. Wish I were. Oh Jesus I can't stay still...hurts too much too much..._

"Don't move!"

Hands were touching him—_the hands that hurt me, shoved me_—gently holding him still. _Okay. You win. I won't move. Just don't...don't..._

He realized he was making low whimpering sounds. _Shut up shut up shut up. Things are bad enough. Don't do anything to piss him off. Don't make it worse. Oh shit._

The hands were moving over his body, touching, sliding down the bones, pressing against his side. When they touched his arm, he had to sink his teeth into his lower lip to hold back a shriek of pain.

"Can you move your legs? Mort?"

_Make up your mind—do you want me to move or not?_ The thought amused him even more than the idea of Bain being afraid. _I want to giggle. No, don't. If I make any kind of noise...who knows where I'll stop..._

"Try, Mort. Please. Not much—just a little."

_Okay. Okay. Whatever you say._

"Good, good. Now the other one."

_I guess this means I haven't broken my neck or my back or anything vital like that. If I had, I wouldn't be hurting like this. I wouldn't be feeling anything._

"Good. I'm going to try to turn you over now."

"No! Oh god...no...please..."

"All right. Be still a moment longer." Bain's voice went soft, soothing. _Back to the voice I've come to know and...almost love. Too late. Everything...too late._

Tears were leaking out of his eyes, making uncomfortable puddles in his eyesockets. _My arm feels like it's been ripped out of my body and now all I can think about is how my eyes feel. Fuck._ He tried to pry an eye open and immediately regretted it as the area in his limited field of vision leapt and swam crazily. _Okay, bad move. I think my glasses are gone too. No surprise there. Oh damn it hurts and now I want to throw up too._

"Let me shift you...just a little...so I can see if there is any more blood."

_Any **more** blood? I don't like the sound of that._

He could tell that Bain was being as gentle as possible, but the movement as he was edged over onto his back sent his consciousness skittering away. A soft touch on his face brought it back.

"I believe your shoulder is dislocated." Careful probing of that area sent a stab of agony through him. "There are cuts...a gash over your eye...perhaps this is broken...ah, Mort..."

_He's sorry. I know he is—just like he was sorry when he...the other time. He didn't mean to hurt me...evil demon inside...I understand now...I really do. I wish to God I didn't, but I do._

"I could fix this—I have done it before—but I think it would be better if I took you to the hospital in New London. Mort? Can you ride, or should I call an ambulance?"

"I can ride." _I think. As long as I can keep my eyes shut. He's going to be really pissed if I puke in his car._

"All right. Here. Reach across yourself like this. Put your hand here, on your arm, to hold it still."

Mort allowed Bain to move the right arm across his body, then cupped his left elbow in the palm of his hand. _Okay, that's not so bad. Not so good, either, but at least it's not hurting any worse. He's going to take care of me. Take me where they'll stop this pain. Fix me._

"Bend the arm...like so...and it will be better."

_It's not, but I'm not going to tell him that. It's easier to keep it still, though._

"Now we will sit you up."

_Bad idea, but I guess we have to._

The shifting had the expected results, with the expected pain. _I don't think puking has ever hurt that much, not even that time in college when I was trying to prove I could be one of the guys and..._

There was another rush of tears, tears which had nothing to do with the pain. _I was trying to prove that I was okay, that I could be their friend, that... I wanted somebody in my life so much that I would've done anything...anything...to be one of them. And now? Am I any better now? This man...this man who's holding me and kissing the side of my face and saying how sorry he is... Is this college all over again? He can rape me and hurt me and do anything to me, just as long as he's somebody in my life?_

"We are going to try again to stand up. Lean on me. I will help you."

_No. No. It's **not** the same. Because I never liked those guys. Not really. I just wanted to belong. But it's different with Bain. Oh...easy...hurts. I like him. I like him a lot. I have from the first day. He hurt me but...I understand. I don't know how...why...but I can understand something inside you taking control and making you...do things you don't want to. Making you go crazy. Oh god that hurts. I understand. And I don't want just somebody...I want him..._

"Can you lean here and let me wrap your coat around you? Good, good. You are doing well, Mort Rainey."

_Warm. The coat feels warm. I wish it didn't have to touch my shoulder. Hurts hurts hurts but the warm is good. His hands are warm. I like Bain. I could more than like him. If I didn't like him, I wouldn't have let him...wouldn't have wanted him to...still want him to..._

"Now we will move again. Carefully. Steps here. Down. Another. Good. Just a little more."

Bain's hand was barely touching his elbow, painlessly supporting his arm as they crossed the driveway. A car door opened, and he was eased into a seat.

"I am not going to do the seatbelt thing for you. I will drive carefully."

As Bain was circling to get into the driver's seat, Mort risked slitting his eyes open again. The world tilted and he swallowed hard. Then he realized. _My car. He's taking **my** car. Not going to risk having me puking in his car. I love this..._

"What do you have to smile about, my friend?" Bain sounded incredulous.

"Nothing. I'll...later." _We'll laugh about it later, together. Yeah, oh yeah, there **is** going to be a later. I understand him, I understand me, I understand us. He's my friend. My lover. He's just fucked up a couple of times, and don't we all do that. He cares about me and I care about him and together...we'll laugh about it together and talk things out and be...together..._

Mort began to fade in and out. After asking once if Mort were doing all right, Bain remained silent for the rest of the drive. Mort could tell Bain was concentrating on his driving, trying to avoid potholes and sudden stops and anything else that might be painful. _Never thought about just how long it takes to get to New London. A fifteen minute drive that's turning into a three-hour tour._

"Mort? We are here."

He hadn't realized that the car had stopped. _Finally. Thank God._ He reached for the door handle, and faded away again.

----------------------

_Where am I?_

His vision was blurred, but the amount of white all around him and the crisp antiseptic smells gave him a clue. _Hospital. Curtains, not walls. Some other poor fucker moaning on the other side there. Probably the ER. I think that's an IV bag up there. Can't feel my shoulder anymore. Can't feel much of anything. Where's Bain?_

The last thought made him try to sit up, but his body refused to obey. _Paperwork. He's gone to do paperwork, that's all. He wouldn't just put me out at the hospital and then go away and leave me. Would he?_

"How are you feeling, Mr. Rainey?" The far-too-cheery nurse who'd appeared at his aborted movement leaned across him to adjust the drip. "Not hurting so much now, I hope. You were in bad shape when your friend brought you in."

"Where..." Mort's lips had gone rubbery, unworking. "My friend..."

"He's in the waiting room. He'll be with you as soon as we finish and can get you to a room. Can you remember what happened to you? How you got hurt?"

"Fell. Stairs...in cabin. No railing."

"You're lucky you weren't hurt much worse, you know."

_In so many ways. I know._

"We've already done your X-rays while you were asleep. The doctor will be in to fix your shoulder as soon as we get the results."

"Peachy."

She giggled and vanished through the curtains. _Bain hasn't left me. I'm not alone. _

_I think I'll take a nap._

Another cheerful voice—this one male—woke him some time later. "All right, Mr. Rainey, let's get this sorted out as fast and painlessly as we can now."

_Right. Good. Couldn't you have let me sleep through it? No pain. Feels good._

"I'm going to ask you to do a few things for me, moving your fingers and wrist, to make sure there's no nerve damage, and then we can put the shoulder back. Let's start with this. Can you grip my hand? And by the way, I'm a big fan of your books."

_Great._

-------------------------------

"Mort, can you hear me?"

He forced his eyes open to the welcome sight of Bain leaning over his bed. He tried to smile.

"I know they have given you morphine for the pain and a...a muscle relaxant to help when they..." Bain gestured at Mort's shoulder. "So I will not try to talk with you now. I will wait until you are more awake."

_Later. Yes. I want to talk later. Talk about later. Later together._

"I am going—"

_No! _"No..."

"All right. I will stay here with you for as long as they will let me." Bain faded out of sight and Mort heard the scrape of a chair being drawn close to the bed. "And if they tell me to leave...I will refuse."

_Good. Later. Good._

Mort struggled. Managed to lift his right hand and flap it in Bain's direction. Bain caught it, and Mort awkwardly laced their fingers together. _Lifeline. You're my lifeline right now. Stay. Together..._

Mort Rainey slept.


	12. Part 13

Along the way, this story has contained bad language, violence, and m/m sex. By this point, if you're still reading, you know that. You also know that these characters belong to their creators, not to me. Major thanks to Miss Becky, who beta-ed the last parts in the face of a hurricane.  
  
For the past 12 parts, we've been hearing what Mort thinks about the situation with Bain. Now it's time to get Bain's point of view...   
  
Secrets 

by Melody Wilde

Part 13

Mort Rainey was sleeping.

Miguel Bain, assassin, fan, would-be friend, lover, sat by Mort's bed, his hand still linked with Mort's, staring sightlessly ahead. Mort thinks so very much and so very deeply. I wish I could think like him. Work things out. I wish I could see an ending for us that is not...this.

The doctor's words—the listing of Mort's injuries—echoed in his mind. It could have been so much worse. It **would** have been so much worse, if he had not fallen. This is not what I wanted for him. For us. I wanted...

He did not want to remember the foolish dreams he had brought with him when he had come to Mort's cabin. They had been foolish even for dreams, because he was a man of the world, a man who had killed too many people and made love to too many more. He was no child, to entertain fantasies of forming a lasting friendship—and more—with a stranger. Sex, yes; most of the sex he had known in his life had been with strangers. But friendship... He had never had a friend, not since he was little more than a baby back in Madrid. He did not know how to be a friend. His demon would not allow it.

But amazingly, incredibly, those dreams had been coming true. Mort was becoming his friend...an enthusiastic lover...someone who trusted him. And now...

Now, any dreams I might have had...they are gone. Over. There are no more chances for us...for there to be an "us." I will not allow it. There cannot be a chance for me to hurt him again and again, until I hurt him in the final way. Until he becomes my last victim.

He shifted his eyes to Mort's face. Mort's features were relaxed, the dark eyes closed. Mort Rainey is the most beautiful man I have ever seen, but I do not think he realizes this. He does not try to be beautiful. He simply is.The dark bruise beginning to discolor one of the high cheekbones...the wide white bandage covering half the forehead...the swelling closing one eye...all screamed accusation at him. I have been responsible for marring that beauty. He fell because of me. Because he was trying to get away from me. This is not acceptable.

He leaned forward, pressed his face against their clasped hands, and began to weep.

----------------

He knew what he had to do. It was not a decision that had to be made; it was an acknowledgement of the inevitable.

He sat by Mort's bed, leaving only to go to the bathroom and splash cold water on his face, then to go for coffee. He waited as Mort slept his drugged sleep. When Mort woke, then it would be time.

-----------------

Mort was staring at him, eyes glazed but seemingly aware. Bain forced himself to smile and moved his chair even closer.

"You're...still here." Mort's voice was weak, breathless, blurred with medication.

"Yes."

"I was afraid..." The eyes closed, re-opened. "I'm glad. Stay..." And then he was gone away again.

-----------------

The next time Mort opened his eyes, Bain could tell that he was more aware of his surroundings. Mort lifted his right hand, groping toward Bain. Bain caught the hand and pressed it between his own, being careful of the needle taped into a vein.

"Good morning." He tried to keep his voice calm.

"Um. Don' think...mornin'..."

"No. It is actually very late in the evening. Almost midnight." He glanced toward the darkened window at the side of the room. "How is the pain?"

"Okay. Don' feel much." Mort moved slightly and turned his head on the pillow to try to peer down at the wrap immobilizing his arm. "Wha'...wha' did he say?"

"Your doctor?"

"Yeah."

The doctor had come to check on Mort more than once while Bain had waited. During one visit, the man had admitted, with a surprisingly shy look, that he was a fan of Mort's writing and, because of that, was giving Mort special treatment. Bain had nodded and replied simply, "Me too."

"He said things went well with your shoulder. You will have to be careful with what you do and work to strengthen the muscles around it, but it will be good. You have many bruises. Some cuts—your forehead is the worst. But there is nothing else serious. You are very fortunate you were not injured more severely."

"Lucky. That's wha'...they keep tellin' me." The tip of Mort's tongue came out to lick at his lips.

"Would you like some water?"

"Yeah."

Bain filled the glass from the pitcher setting on the bedside tray, then rose and leaned over to slide a hand beneath Mort's head and lift it. Mort managed to get the straw between his lips and sucked greedily at the cool liquid.

"Thanks." He moved his head, pushing the straw away with his tongue. Bain set the glass back in place.

"Are you going to stay awake for a while now?"

"I think...yeah."

"Mort..." Bain sat back down, folded his hands as if in prayer, and rested them against the edge of the bed. "I am going to have to leave."

"You mean...go home..."

"No. Leave. Leave here. Leave you. Go back to..." He shook his head.

Mort's eyes darkened, and he tried to sit up. "No. Don't. You..." He sank back. "Why?"

"You know why."

"I **fell**. You didn't...it was my fault..."

"Yes, my friend, you fell. I did not push you. I did not hurt you. But if you had not fallen..." He shuddered. "You know what would have happened. You would be hurt much worse than this, perhaps."

"Bain..."

"Listen to me now, carefully. Do not interrupt. Here is what is going to happen." He spoke quickly, anxious to have this difficult thing—the most difficult thing he had ever done—over. "The doctor has said you will stay here for at least two more days. It is perhaps not a necessity, but he will allow this. I am going to take your car back to the cabin. I will call your agent and tell him that you are hurt and that he should come to help you, or send someone, so that you will not be alone. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I will lock your house and leave your keys in a hidden place where your agent can find them. And then I am going to take my car and go. I will not be back. We both understand why this must be."

"No. Please..." Mort's head was moving slowly from side to side, the light fading from his eyes. If I were a fanciful man, I would think I see something dying in this man. The same thing that is dying in me.

"You will be well, Mort Rainey. This is the right thing to do." He stood, reaching back to retrieve his jacket from the back of the chair and fold it over his arm. "Our time together was..."

His throat closed. He smiled and shook his head. It doesn't matter. There are no words adequate.

"Good bye, my friend."

"Miguel..."

The anguish in the single word—his name—almost undid him. Mort never called me by my first name before.He bent over the bed, brushing his fingers across Mort's soft hair, and touched his lips to Mort's forehead.

"Know that I love you," he whispered. Then he turned and left the room, moving slowly, then more quickly, breaking into a run. He took the stairs three at a time, down, across the parking lot, fingers diving into his pocket for the keys, flung himself into the car, and ground his forehead against the steering wheel. Only then would he allow himself to cry again.

-----------------------

Everything was done. The cabin was secured, no water running, the fireplace cold and still, all the lights turned off except the one by the door where he stood. He had spoken with Mort's agent, explaining the problem, and been assured the man would be arriving early tomorrow morning. This morning. It will be morning in a few hours.His bag was packed and stowed in the back seat of his rented car. He had left nothing, and he was taking...almost nothing. He had tucked one of Mort's oldest, most disreputable sweaters into his bag. That was a foolish romantic gesture. Not like me.

He flipped off the light switch and stepped onto the porch, locking the door behind him and then hiding the key. Straightening his shoulders, he left the house behind.

There was a full moon, and he had never minded driving at night. When he pulled onto the Interstate, he headed south, driving as cautiously as he had driven Mort earlier that day, being careful to obey the speed limit.

I can return the car later, after I have taken care of the things in the trunk. Perhaps I will take them to Mississippi and bury them there.

He let his mind drift to the moment his digging in the garden had unearthed a skeletal foot. The sight had startled him, but Miguel Bain was a man who could deal with being startled and make a quick recovery. He had thrown some dirt over the bones to hide them, then sent Mort on an errand that would keep him away for at least half an hour—time enough to deal with the unexpected development. It had been simple for a man with his skills.

The remains had been tied in trash bags and locked safely in his trunk long before Mort had returned with gloves and a shovel and anxieties. He had left that shovel with Mort, taking the older one to do what he would do later. No one would ever find it, or any traces of the woman who should have given love to Mort Rainey but had given him betrayal, or of the man who had led her into that betrayal.

He was right. There was no Shooter. Only Mort.

It did not disturb him in the least to know that Mort Rainey was a murderer. That Mort Rainey had a demon, like himself. He had thought they were much alike...but they were more alike than he had even suspected.

He must never know the truth. I will spend some time in Mississippi, as I planned. But the rest...I cannot go back to him, to tell him that I found and killed this man. I will send a letter instead. I want him to believe that Shooter is dead, so that Shooter can never return to ruin his life. As **I** can never return to ruin his life.

Bain flipped on the radio and drove away into the night.


	13. Epilogue

Warnings on the other parts, but probably none on this one. They still don't belong to me.

And a big OOPS! I thought I'd posted the entire story here, but obviously not. Thank you , Midnight Island, for the heads up.

_Secrets_

_by Melody Wilde_

Epilogue -- _18 months later_

The book signing was at three, so Mort still had plenty of time to grab lunch before heading over to Border's. He did a quick check—wallet, room key, jacket, jeans zipped up—before closing the door to the hotel room and heading toward the elevator and the excellent restaurant downstairs. _Maybe a salad and a sandwich. Or maybe something bigger. I __**do **__have to face god-knows-how-many fans this afternoon. I ought to fortify myself._

He grinned at his reflection in the elevator doors. _Backward thinking, Mort. I don't really need that anymore. I can deal with people now. Well…okay, not totally, but mostly. I can deal with fans. I've proved that in seven cities so far, seven down and ten to go, not counting today. Smile and look into their eyes, then sign the book and say thank you. It's not like I have to do a reading or give a talk or answer questions._

_No, I don't need to fortify myself. But I think I'll have a steak anyway. I'll work it off later tonight in the hotel gym._

He turned left and through the double doors into the dining room. A server smiled and handed him a menu, calling him by name and escorting him to a secluded table where he could dine in privacy. He placed his order, then leaned back and stared out through the tinted glass of the window, watching the people moving by. Watching.

_I still haven't stopped watching. Stupid and juvenile, but that's me, good ol' Mort Stupid and Juvenile Rainey. Okay, Mort, remember what your therapist said—this is only because the Bain thing is a major piece of unfinished business in my life, like whatever happened to Amy and Ted. Only when I watch…look…scan the faces…I'm not looking for Amy and Ted._

The past year and a half had been busy—so busy that sometimes he wondered how he'd found time to finish the book he was promoting now **and **write another. _Wait'll Herb finishes reading that one. He's going to shit a brick over my assassin hero_ The thought made the corners of his mouth twitch.

His shoulder had healed well. Originally, the doctors had thought he might need corrective surgery, but care and physical therapy and, later, exercise, had done the trick.

His decision to sell the cabin had been an easy one. Herb had taken him back there, after he'd been released from the hospital, and he'd walked in and_… Couldn't fucking breathe. Sat down on the couch and just fell over to one side and started crying. Scared Herb to death. But it felt so __**empty.**__ Deserted. Alone. I lived there almost four years by myself and it never ever felt as alone as it did then._ He'd managed to hang on for two days…and two terrible nights…before packing up everything he wanted to take away and leaving it forever. _It didn't take long. All my books. The laptop and backup discs. The clothes Bain bought for me the day we went shopping. And the quilt he wrapped around me that night…the night we became lovers_.

His salad and glass of tea arrived. He thanked the waiter and turned his attention to getting just the right amount of salad dressing in just the right spots.

Herb had found an apartment for him in a quiet part of the city, someplace he could stay while he decided what to do next. He'd written, typing awkwardly with one hand, and read and thought and gone for long walks. He'd refused to let himself go back to the sleeping all day/writer's block pattern of the post-Amy time.

He'd decided to rebuild the house Shooter had destroyed. He'd chosen the houseplan, but he'd left all the details—colors, drapes, kitchen appliances—to the next-door neighbors who'd been…_not friends, but people I could talk with across the fence, people who seemed to like me_…before all the unpleasantness. He'd been living in the house for just over three months now. It felt good. It felt like home. The neighbors had become real friends during the process, so he no longer felt so totally alone. They were taking care of the house and his dog while he was on the book signing junket.

The letter had come to him, in care of Herb, two months after he'd left Tashmore Lake, while he was still in his apartment. No return address. Postmarked Mississippi. A single sheet of paper, a single handwritten line. "Shooter will never bother you again." No signature. But he knew who it was from, and he knew what it meant. He'd had the letter framed, and it hung over his bed in the new house, where he slept under a quilt that was one of the only remnants of his former life.

He'd begun the other sort of therapy soon after returning to New York, in an attempt to learn why all his relationships failed, sooner or later. _I'm still working on that one. I'm not sure I'll ever find the answer_. His neighbors had set him up with a couple of dates, and he'd managed himself well enough, but he wasn't anywhere near risking himself in any way again. _And I may never be. Maybe…_

"Your steak, Mr. Rainey."

"Thank you."

"Would you like steak sauce? More butter or sour cream?"

"No. Thanks. This is fine."

His lawyer—working in tandem with Amy's lawyer—was trying to finalize the divorce. Mort wasn't sure how that was going, or what the legalities of the whole thing were, with Amy missing for so long. He didn't think about it very often. _That's what I'm paying the lawyers big bucks to do, so I don't have to worry my pretty little head. I'll worry about it if I ever get serious about anybody and want to remarry. Fat chance of that_.

He checked his watch—_12:30; plenty of time_—and cut into the steak.

"Mort Rainey."

Mort froze. From somewhere in front of him, he could see his server moving quickly toward the table, frowning that someone had disturbed his lunch. He took a deep breath and lay his fork down.

"I know it is you. Your hair is dark now and your glasses are different and your beard is gone, but…"

"Sir, I'm sorry, but you can't—"

"It's all right. He's…" Mort managed to turn in his seat, looking up into the smiling black eyes. "A friend."

"My apologies." The server faded away as quickly as he'd come.

"Am I? Ah. I am glad to hear that. Hello, my friend. You look very well."

_Bain. My god. Oh my god. I don't believe it. I want to…to jump up and hug him and make a scene that would get me headlines in the National Enquirer and…_

"Have you no words for me?"

_Oh what the fuck. I don't care._

"Jesus God, Miguel!" He was out the chair, flinging his arms around Bain, feeling the hug returned with a force that lifted his off his feet. "Where…how…"

Bain laughed and released him. "May I join you?"

"You'd better."

Bain seated himself across from Mort. "It is good to see you again."

"No shit." _Seeing him is like…_ "What are you doing here? I mean…"

"I know what you mean. I came looking for you. I saw that you would be in the city signing your books, and so I came. To see you. To talk. It was easy to find out where you are staying." He gave an embarrassed half-shrug. "Old habits die hard. You cannot unlearn what you have learned."

Mort bit the inside of his lip. _There are so many things I want to say to him, to ask, to…where should I start? What if…_

"I see that your busy mind is still thinking." Bain reached across the table to lay a hand on Mort's. "Could you…perhaps…ask it to listen to the things I have come to say to you?"

"Yes."

"I know that you have changed—not just your appearance, but other things. I could not help still…" He shrugged again. "Following your career. I want to tell you that I, also, have changed."

He leaned forward. "I am…retired now, as I told you I would. I have lived in New York City for the past year, but I have made myself stay away from you. I did not want to interfere with your life again…to ask if I could be your friend…until I felt I was worthy."

"Miguel…"

"No. Let me finish. I have spent a good deal of money on psychiatrists, who have worked with me and helped me find the source of all my anger and my…evil demon. Who have helped me to rid myself of him forever."

"How?"

"Much talk. Some medication. Believe me, Mort Rainey, if that part of me were not gone, I would not be here speaking with you now."

_I do believe him. And I know what seeing him is like. Joy. Sunshine. God, I feel like some stupid teenager… Completion. Life._

"Mort? Do you think…can we be friends now?"

He had to take a quick sip of tea to clear the lump in his throat. "I don't know."

Bain's eyes widened.

"I don't think we can be…just friends. I think I want more. I want what we had…" _Son of a bitch, I believe I'm actually blushing. I didn't know I had it in me._ "I want to see if we can go beyond what we had."

Bain's lips curled upward in a slow smile. "My friend, we can do that."

They were standing. Mort fumbled in his pocket for his wallet, pulled out a hundred dollar bill, and dropped it on the table beside his uneaten steak.

"I have a room and two hours before I have to be anywhere. Let's go talk."

Bain moved closer and lowered his voice. "For you, Mort Rainey, I have the rest of my life."

_Yeah. Yeah, I think we do._

The End

Author's Notes: When I began to write this, I had only the vaguest idea of how it would end. Despite the fact that I, personally, am a sucker for a happy ending, I never thought Mort and Bain would find one. Various endings that occurred to me along the way include: Bain killing Mort; Mort killing Bain; them killing each other; and Mort waking up alone with copies of the videos of "Assassins" and "Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down." Somewhere near the end, the guys demanded as happy a resolution as possible, and since Bain has a gun, I nodded and said okay but they had to help me out. And they did. It meant some extensive rewrites to make the earlier parts "fit" with the later ones, but I was glad to do it for them. I hope you all think it was worth the effort.

Thanks to everyone who's written me and/or commented on this story. I love you all. Special thanks to the amazing Miss Becky for beta efforts, for encouragement, and for being a good friend. I love you bunches!


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